The Lioness Part 3: The Lioness Shackled
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: The third of seven short stories primarily focusing on Cersei Lannister in an Alternate ASOIAF universe. Watch through six POV chapters what happens in Westeros in the years in-between the aftermath of the Greyjoy Rebellion and when the books would have originally begun in the year 298 after the conquest.
1. Chapter 1

( **Author's Note:** This story is a continuation of the tale that started with the _Lioness Un-Antlered_ and continued with the _Lioness Boared_. Check out my Profile)

* * *

 **Cersei Crakehall POV**

 **\- o -**

 **Tarbeck Hall, Late 290**

 **\- o -**

"Ho, Cersei! Ho, Auntie!" the Ogre boomed out with his normal annoying too good cheer upon entering the chill family common room with the force of a gale and immediately heading towards the trough to break his fast.

"Cersei. Shiera, a fine morning to both you ladies," cousin Damion said courteously, slipping his softer greeting into the still echoing thunder of her boarish husband's call.

"Lovely ladies," the Lord Oaf unnecessarily corrected their castellan before he had a chance to stuff anything into his enormous maw. "The loveliest!"

"Did the foundation shift in the freeze?" Cersei inquired seriously, disregarding the unwanted compliment.

"Was just a wee Dark Summer snow," the Strongbore scoffed in answer to the question not addressed him. "Nothing shifted overnight. The stonecutters will still be able to start throwing up the Great Keep next moon," he announced, supremely confident in his ignorance.

For all the insulation now sporting about Cersei's belly, and that she slept next to a furnace straight from one of the fiery SevenHells, it had gotten damnably cold the previous night. Daily, this sole ragtag, charred, half-standing tower of Tarbeck Hall gave evidence that the repairs done to make it barely habitable for a herd of goats had been accomplished by a troop of blind mummers. The blasts of icy wind that had come through the cracks in the dark had left unsightly chilblains on any scrap of her precious exposed skin, while the Ogre snored obliviously and happy as the pig he was through it.

Ignoring the proclamation, she addressed the one with an actual mind. "What is your view, cousin?"

"The shorings still look secure to me. And as Lyle said, the base stones held in place," Damion answered. "But what matters …"

"Pick me up poppa. Pick me up," chanted five year old Lanna at her father.

Her cousin stooped and lifted her up as demanded. "… what matters is that Maester Mervyn found no faults or cracks. The canvases stretched over the pit and the straw at the bottom appear to have held off the cold." Having answered her, he then turned to address the daughter in his arms while gently tousling the blonde hair atop her head. "What shall poppa eat, sweetling?"

In addition to the gold from Casterly Rock, Cersei's father had dowered her with a loyal if young castellan and a maester well experienced in the building of castles and other noble edifices. At false dawn, the trio of them, castellan, maester, and the Lord Oaf had left the tower, raised a slew of slothful workers from their filth in the slapped together stables and warehouses that housed them, and gone to investigate the damage.

Apparently, there was thankfully little of it. The Great Keep and proper quarters, separate quarters, for herself could not be built quickly enough to satisfy Cersei. Even if they could only be served by a single maid and filled with furniture fit only for an exceptionally poor hedgeknight's holdfast. Anything to escape the Strongbore's lustful nightly embrace.

Of course the Ogre's inconsiderate stomping about their tight packed bed chamber in search of half passable clean small things had awakened her at that Seven awful hour. She had feigned sleep until he took his miserable carcass away. But by then, the demon growing in her womb was kicking up such a fuss that she could not have fallen back asleep if she had wanted to.

When a dram of wine proved as insufficient to the task as her own will, she had dragged her bloated, fat bellied, bulging titted body out of bed and made for the one room in this prison that offered her any comfort. Because of the freeze, a fire had remained well tended overnight in the family common room. Sipping the bland tea handed her, Cersei had savored the silence, as a servant or two bustled about; staring down at the model and dreaming of what this ruin would become.

Cersei knew to the dragon, the moon, the stag, the star, the groat, the halfgroat, the penny, and even to the last damnable halfpenny the cost of what necessities would populate her chambers, her keep, her halls, her towers, her gardens, and her castle. As she must live in this mountainous backwater, she would do so in a style becoming a queen.

Father had been very explicit in how much of Casterly Rock's gold would be spent to rebuild Tarbeck Hall. With cheap Roland Crakehall's contribution in his boarish son's name of course only being nominal. And Maester Mervyn's initial plan had wrongly accounted for that, with the new castle's footprint closely matching that of the old one's.

Cersei knew better; and so, with the subtle appearance of wishing to economize, had pleaded the case for a smaller, cozier holdfast. Impressive and strong, without question; yet one modest enough that her father's remaining coin would be sufficient for stocking her home with the luxuries she deserved.

To the Strongbore, for whom size meant everything, such an approach was madness. Not that the Ogre begrudged a lady's silly desire for things finer than a strong warhorse, tough mail, and a sharp sword. However, her acquiescence to him wishing to name the rebuilt castle the Boar's Tusk and showing rarer fervor in their "rutting" over the subsequent week, had worn the Lord Oaf down to accepting her wisdom.

What her husband knew not, and the clever maester only through her pointed hints, was that what the plans and model did not reveal was an entire second outer tier to her castle, the Lioness' Den. A few sharp suggestions on her part had seen adjustments that her inner eye could discern would allow for another curtain wall, space for jousts and tournaments, room to house shoppes for the finest goldsmiths, the cleverest glaziers, and the best clothe makers.

And where was the gold for this to come from? She unconsciously touched her belly. The son that would place her back in her father's good graces. The treasure vaults in the depths of Casterly Rock would shower her with gold.

"And how is my piglet this morning?" the Lord Oaf inquired jovially, gesturing to where her hand lay atop her no longer trim abdomen.

" _He_ sleeps now, my lord," she answered, causing the Ogre to grin as he ever did when she referred to their coming child as the desired for son.

"Not so sleepy earlier though, was he, Cersei?" Shiera laughed in a low, kind voice. "I found her out here quite early."

"Is that so, Auntie? An active tyke, then. I'd expect nothing less with a lioness for a mother," the Strongbore said well pleased.

With a name so similar to Stannis' dead bitch and being a Crakehall herself, Cersei still periodically surprised herself with the lack of derision, if not some friendliness, she felt for her cousin's wife. Considerate, kind, respectful, unassuming, helpful, and intelligent; though Seven be praised, not vexingly so to any degree. She was even modestly attractive; not thick about the middle like most Crakehalls, even after several births.

"Well, mine were mostly more kittens than proper lions. Sorry, Damion," she chuckled.

"Ha, no apology necessary, my love," replied her cousin. Then, addressing little Lanna, who was dangling off his knee as he more played with her than ate his bowl of pease, he false whispered, "Roar for me. Roar. Those are our house words. Be a Lannister."

Shiera both smiled affectionately at her husband and shook her head in slight exasperation at his antics, before continuing. "They on occasion drummed on my liver like a Northman."

"Bah, what do I care of Northmen, Auntie" the Ogre exclaimed with perhaps a glint of amusement in his fierce Westerlands' pride.

"Then swallow one and see how your vast belly likes it, you great oaf," her good-cousin retorted.

The only truly annoying thing about her was that as Roland Crakehall's much younger half-sister, the last fruit of old Lord Sumner's aging lust, the Strongbore beat to death any humor out of the fact that Shiera was only a mere five years older than the Lord Oaf by always calling her "Auntie." Cersei supposed the fault could not be associated with the woman's birth, but as with most things, the burden lay with her husband.

The Ogre made a show of sucking in his gut, then answered with a chortle, "Maybe just a small one?" Laughter spread around the room to everyone, even the children, except for Cersei.

Mention of the Northmen invariably offered an opportunity for Damion and the Ogre to again start talking about the war with the iron born, which both had fought exceptionally nobly in if their words were to be fully believed. And as night followed day, or Winter marked the end of Summer, the pair began wondering aloud at how the Imp and his Kraken whore were doing on Pyke under the eye of Uncle Gerion.

Cersei stewed, thinking of all the beautiful gold of her house being spent on her mother's killer instead of on her. Perhaps the bitch would do them all the favor and stab the freak to death. She dreamed of doing that to the Ogre. Or perhaps the iron born's Drowned God would reach out of the sea and pull the ruins of the Greyjoy's castle down into the depths.

"Cersei? Love?"

The Strongbore's harsh voice brought her out of her mental revelry.

"Yes?" she allowed herself; not openly acknowledging she hadn't been paying the least attention to her lord husband's ramblings.

"I said I'd be leaving in an hour or two to lead a patrol into the Carmarth Hills and that village astride the bend in the Corndust."

Her eyes narrowed a tad.

"Word came in while we were out of some thieves there abouts. That old Duncaster lordling is as useless as tits on a bull. Thought I'd show the banner. Might even catch some villain red-handed if I'm lucky. At least give'em a good scare. Let everyone know they've got an active overlord who knows how to swing a sword, heh?" he chuckled.

"You'll be gone a night or two?" she asked coldly; her gaze turning actively suspicious.

"Most like. Could get some hunting in too if things are too tame."

"And spend the nights in that hamlet?"

"By the Corndust? I suppose," he said too casually. "Good idea really. Night's'll be a might cold still."

The only thing worse than the Ogre's paws groping her was the shame from other's knowing that the Strongbore let his tusk rut about in some diseased whore. Her spies had told her about _that_ inn on the Corndust. "How dare you go enjoy yourself with that little slut," she hissed.

"What?" the Lord Oaf questioned, wrinkly up his face in pretend surprise that she knew about his past visits there.

Cersei barely heard Damion and Shiera send Lanna and Lucion out of the room.

"You heard me. I know you've stopped there before for that common bitch's favors."

"You mean Celia the tavern maid? Come off it, Cersei; she's saucy fun with her naughty japes, but she's married to Thorn the blacksmith," he explained as if she was crazy.

"Cersei, listen to …" Damion tried to placate.

Her words ran right past his, "As if you don't have a need to slake your filthy thirsts."

"Shut your mouth, woman!" the Ogre exploded, launching himself out of his chair. "You're huge with child and I'm not about to crush you with my … my passions."

"Passions!" she raged back at him. "Clumsy cackhanded pawings, more like. Your welcome to the slut. Begone with you, then and have your joy."

The Strongbore quivered with rage; face mottled, jaw bouncing about as if in search of words his pea sized brain could not find.

Cersei steeled herself as she had with Robert; ready to receive at last the pummeling she knew her boarish husband had long refrained from giving her for fear of her father's wrath.

"My joy?! My joy?! My joy was marrying the beauty I fell in love with the first time I saw her, escorting her brother to squire for my grandfather. That was my joy! Those words were my vow!"

He raised his hand.

Cersei refused to flinch.

"Good day to you, Lady Cersei," he roared and stormed out of the room far, far louder than he had stormed into it.

* * *

She had refused to cry, though she had retreated to what little safety her bedchamber granted her.

Shortly the sound of angry command from the yard came through the cracks in the badly patched walls. Then the noise of a score or so of riders leaving at a hard pace set the stones drumming.

She wished the thieves well.

Then wondered whether the few lions still living furtively in the mountainous Westerlands would find his sinewy porcine body to stringy to chew on.

Eventually her cousin's voice and that of Maester Mervyn flitted about, ordering this or that group of smallfolks at their construction tasks.

At some point, Shiera came in, sweetly not saying a word, her face offering no judgement; but ironically, leaving tea for her on her hope chest beside the bed that Cersei sat silently upon.

Alone again, the tea was set aside and she opened the large box to rummage through her personal effects … her memories. A doll her mother had given her. A scroll of poems to the _Maiden_ given her by Aunt Genna. Other meaningful knickknacks from family members. The lace her father had swathed a ten year old Cersei in the first night of the Great Tournament he had hosted in honor of Prince Visery's birth. Prince Rhaegar had watched her that night … as had Jaime.

Inside a small coffer at the bottom of the chest were her most precious mementos … of Jaime. The daggers they had dueled with as children. A scrap of clothe from the cloak she'd worn as disguise that night to seedy tavern where she convinced him to join the Kingsguard. So clever she thought she was being. If only …

Tap, tap, tap.

Shiera entered again, not saying a word about the mess Cersei had strewn about. She held something in her hand. "A letter came for you with a rider from Casterly Rock."

Cersei's eyes snapped wide open. It could only be the answer to her most reasonable request that she be allowed to give birth in the safety of Casterly Rock instead of in this twisted, broken stone monstrosity only fit for the Imp.

Her hand barely trembled as she reached out for it.

Relinquishing the message, her good cousin bobbed her head and turned to leave.

"No … Shiera. Please … please stay."

The somewhat chunky Crakehall stopped her movement away and went to sit on the bed near Cersei, but not too near; an understanding warmth on her face. She too had done her duty and married where she'd been told. At least she had been able to marry a true Lannister.

An imperfectly trimmed nail sliced the wax bearing the Lion's sigil.

\- o -

 _Lady Cersei Crakehall,_

 _It is inadvisable that you lay in for your birth at your former home._

 _First, there is the danger of such a journey. As you are already seven_

 _months gravid, and only fit for travel by wheelhouse, you might not_

 _even arrive in Casterly Rock by the date of your delivery._

 _Second, and more importantly, you may be carrying, as we all wish,_

 _the heir for the newest house ennobled in the Westerlands. To_

 _establish the loyal roots necessary for any of your off-spring who may_

 _one day inherit the castle and lands for which House Lannister is_

 _paying; wisdom dictates that the child be born there._

 _And lastly, to ease any concern that you might have with regards to_

 _your current maester's particulars in midwifery, I have directed one_

 _with renown in those skills to journey to your husband's hall to assist you._

 _I will do no more and no less for your brother Tyrion and his wife, Asha;_

 _whom a raven has just brought news is now also with child. Hopefully a_

 _son._

 _My wishes for a speedy and safe delivery._

 _Lord Tywin Lannister._

\- o -

The coldness of her father's answer pierced her heart, her hopes, her dreams as sharply as any blade. She had been wrong. Not just about her plans with Jaime, but about almost everything. So horribly, horribly wrong.

Tears sprang forth from her eyes. And then gasping, wretched sobs heaved uncontrollably from her mouth.

Blind, she felt the bed shift as Shiera leaned into her and wrap warm, comforting arms about her as she wept as hard as she ever had.


	2. Chapter 2

**Catelyn Stark POV**

 **Winterfell, Early Summer 292**

" _Of course you and your brood would arrive last_ ," Catelyn thought wryly to herself, despite knowing that of all the major lords of the North he had the furthest to travel. She watched Lord Rickard, not quite two score name days old, rein up dramatically in Winterfell's courtyard and vigorously dismount in all his grizzled barbarian magnificence from the sturdy piebald he rode.

Every window in any tower, every crenel atop any wall, that offered a view was chock full of curious faces now that the compliment of major houses would be complete. This rival had the Stark "look," much more so than her Robb's Tully dominated features; and she had little doubt the would play up his status as "concerned cousin" in the coming days. But what was this lord's exact hopes in coming was the only question that had interested her with each new visitor to her son's birthright.

The Lord of the Karhold waited until all his Cyvasse pieces were also dismounted and arrayed in attack formation before advancing in mass to the thin defensive line Catelyn had set out to greet them. The same as she had done for the arrival of the thirty or so senior houses and clans already gathered in Winterfell and Wintertown. The two hundred lordlings not directly pledged to Winterfell had in the main only initially seen Vayon's face. For solidarity's sake, she and Robb had solicitously welcomed all the minor direct banners.

"Lord Robb," Rickard Karstark announced with a semi-respectful bow. No "Lord Stark" from him to a boy of eight regardless that her son was the man's liege lord.

"Lord Karstark, I welcome you and your family to Winterfell for this Summer Harvest Feast," The young lord paramount responded nobly; now very well practiced at the art of addressing noble visitors.

By solemn tradition dating back to the days of the King in the North, Winterfell held a Harvest Feast for the banner lords to come confirm their fealty to House Stark when the White Ravens had flown from the Citadel to announce the arrival of Autumn. However, as the current Summer was already overlong than usual, a lesser known custom of the North had been pushed forward by those lords unhappy with the current Regency Council; that of having a Harvest Feast at least seven years from the last, if Summer was in its fifth or greater year.

Benjen had joined with Lords Cerwyn and Hornwood to outvote her and Ser Wylis to allow all the crows to gather about the carcass of her dear Ned's legacy. Though to be fair to them, Medger and Halys had not agreed to the proposal out of any malice or greed, as they were as likely as her to lose their positions; but out of a Northman's sense of honor. Benjen on the other hand …

"I look forward to renewing my oath to your House, cousin. You remember my sons, don't you?"

Sixteen year old Harrion, twelve year old Eddard, and ten year old Torrhen all bobbed their heads dutifully whilest echoing, "My Lord."

"And fair Alys," Lord Rickard announced, manhandling to the front his six year old daughter like she was a cut of meat. "Curtsey, for Lord Robb," he ordered her

Robb smiled easily at the spindly little thing adorned in her house's traditional black and white colors, emphasizing her pale, long features. "Cousin Alys," he greeted her cheerfully.

This brought heat to the girl's cheeks and she looked shyly down at her riding boots until Catelyn suspected a strong hand prodded her back. "Lord Stark, thank you," she mumbled, earning her an unseen, predatory grin by Rickard through his thick, just salting, pepper beard.

Then the man commanded his troops forward, "Harrion, come speak with Brother Benjen about the latest news from Easwatch. See what he knows of this new commander, Cotter Pyke."

Robb looked surprise at the departure from the norm of the greeting line, but stayed quiet, watching for his mother's lead. Amused, more than shocked by Karstark's effrontery, Catelyn held her tongue to see how blatant the maneuvering would be.

"Eddard. Torrhen. Say hello to Lady Sansa."

Was that the main assault or merely a feint? " _What would you do, my lord, if little Arya were here?_ " she wondered. Would he have the audacity to make an opening play for a betrothal to a babe of two and a half name days? Others already were, sending their children to play in the eerie Godswood; her younger daughter's favorite haunt with old Nan.

"Lady Stark, you look as lovely as ever," her husband's cousin announced bluntly.

"And you as strong as ever, Lord Rickard," she answered with a hint of coyness in her voice; seeing if he would respond in a manner that might reveal that she was his particular prize. Ser Wendel had made no bones about his intent towards her. Robett Glover had strongly suggested that his betrothal to Sybelle Locke was not so firm as most other's believed. And young Robin Flint tongue positively tripped over itself every time he spoke with her.

"The North breeds strength. It must. Are not House Stark's words, ' _Winter is Coming_ ,' my lady?" he patronized her.

Smiling politlely, Catelyn answered, "Indeed, those are _my_ house's words, Lord Karstark;" counter-thrusting from behind her shield of courtesy. "And _my_ son well remembers them; as well as many other lessons my lord husband imparted to him."

This drew a simple grunt in response from the Karhold; then, "Were Ned still here. Seems unnatural to be saying the oath …"

" _To my son?_ " Catelyn thought hotly.

"… with Summer showing no hint of endings. Long time since this custom were invoked. Odd times."

"Yes, t'was last done by Cregan Stark," Catelyn said to show her knowledge of the North.

"Oh, aye," Lord Rickard agreed absentmindedly, attention now more on his children's maneuvering against her family than on her.

"After he had returned from serving as Hand of the King; at the end of the Dance of Dragons. He must have felt the need to receive his banners' oaths," she continued in an easy tone she did not feel.

"With a Riverlands' wife," her rival pointed out with more than a hint of derision; not acknowledging that that long ago Harvest Feast had happened ten years later and that Cregan's wife died soon thereafter.

"Aly Blackwood," she acknowledged.

"Aye, a Blackwood. At least she worshipped in front of the heart tree, she did," he said dourly.

"Let me repeat my son's welcome, Lord Rickard," Catelyn said with a polite smile to conclude the Karstarks formal arrival and signal the end of the conversation. She had discovered what she needed to know from this one. "Your journey here was long. Allow Lord Stark's steward, Lord Vayon, to show you to your quarters in the Great Keep."

Surprise and some pleasure glinted in those guarded, steely eyes. "The Great Keep? Considerate of you to keep rooms open so late for us, Lady Catelyn."

"Your house and mine _are_ cousins," she emphasized. "Lord Vayon," she then called out in a louder voice; though she knew he was not far. "Please show Lord Rickard and his children to their apartment."

"Of course, my lady," the slender, just entering middle years lordling agreed pleasantly; by word and motion not betraying that the Karstarks' exalted destination had not been assured from the beginning, but upon what his lady might discover of their intent from the greeting. That and the diligent intelligence already gathered by her steward's loyal staff as to the alliances and understandings the host of lords present in the castle were in the process of keeping, forming, breaking, and remaking.

After the Lord of the Karhold collected his pieces from the board and departed at the side of dear Vayon, Catelyn called out, "Come, Lord Robb. Sansa. We must prepare for tonight's feast," she declared more for those observing from their perches up high than for her children. And on the morrow she would bravely face a majority of these same Northmen who wished her gone from Winterfell and her son's side.

* * *

Normally, when she must unburden her soul, Catelyn would visit the Sept Ned had generously built for her within Winterfell's vast confines to appease her anger over the bastard. Now, for reasons beyond the simple fact she could not allow her enemies the chance to see "That Southron Woman" visiting her gods and add it to their campaign of whispers and lies, she did not go there; for Robb's sake. That left her with only one choice; unfortunately for her trembling heart, the necessary one, regardless. She knew whose forgiveness she must beg.

Catelyn hated this deep, dark place. Hated the icy chill in the vaulted depth carved out beneath permanently half frozen earth; pierced this far down by only the narrow stairs, the castle's hot springs, and the twisted white roots of the alien heart tree that broke through in places between the roughly cut stones. She had always hated that this, by Stark tradition, was where her beloved's bones must rest for all eternity.

Not up where the sun, which he had brought to her life in the wintry North, could shine upon him. Warm him as he had warmed her. He deserved sky and wind and flowers and rain, and yes even snow; more than just the tears she wept for him as she clung to the cold stone sarcophagus – shaped in his image, but an insufficient expression to project the love he had held for her and their children with his every breath.

She had not wanted to come alone to this quintessentially Stark place. Typically, she would have asked Vayon to accompany her, but he was still busy seeing to the noble laggards and prominent drunkards partaking excessively of her house's largesse – apparently not caring whether they were sober or not for the morning's Great Council. Besides, how could she bring the man to share her doubts at the betrayal she more than contemplated making.

Instead, the quiet little crannogman had escorted her through the night to the entrance to the crypt. The only other of the company, than her Ned, to have survived the attempt to rescue poor, doomed Lyanna, had seemed an apt choice to accompany her on this voyage of guilt. But he had not descended into the crypts with her after all. At the heavy doors they had discovered little, Crone-touched Arya, waiting expectantly; no sign of a guard, let alone her nurse or her ever present shadow, dim Hodor.

" _I want to see Father and Grandpapa and my Aunt and Uncle," her youngest had lisped with that calm certitude of her queer, almost adult like, nature._

 _The wiry Lord of mysterious Greywater Watch showed no strain in lifting up the door angled from the tower foot into the black earth, and then opened his arms to her as she held Arya. "I will see her to her bed, Lady Catelyn," Howland had said kindly._

" _I want to see them," her daughter repeated as she passed between the two._

" _One day child. Patience. Like your lady mother now, your journey shall come," he calmed her._

All the statues she knew, and a thousand more Starks beside, were here; running on and on through the flickering light and warped, human shaped shadows cast by her sole torch into the impenetrable mists of Winterfell's beginning. As far back as Bran the Builder so far as she knew.

Catelyn only cared for the one. Not even dashing Brandon's presence garnered her tear filled interest. She half sat and half sprawled at the base of Ned's cold, impenetrable tomb of human shaped granite. Holding it forcefully with the pitiful strength of her weak flesh; careful only to not cut herself on the sword Mikken had forged for Ned to hold forever, or until the iron decayed and fell away into red dust as many of the oldest already had.

"You never would had lied … Ned ... Always did right … by your Northern honor … even if it … shamed you," she sobbed, though the odd twists to his strict morals had more humiliated her than him it had oft seemed. Starting with the bastard. At least the Manderlys' had not brought him; using only mentions of him to push their influence.

Unyielding, unforgiving stone eyes peered down through the gloom at her crumpled pitifully before him.

"I do it for the children Ned ... the children … our children."

Quiet met her words.

"You'd be so proud of Robb. He's grown so in the last year. He watches everything fron the high table. Asks so smart questions. And he'll wield Ice smartly and wisely when the time comes, my love. Ser Rodrik gave him a true sword to start practicing with just last month. You'd be so proud."

His spirit did not reply to her pleas to his paternal pride.

"Sansa is so beautiful. Much prettier than I ever was. She'll be a great lady, one day, once she blooms. I know it. I know it," she hoped aloud.

The silence in the cold, stuffy air lingered.

"And precious Arya, she … she looks just like you Ned. Oh to see her …" it broke her heart in so many ways to think o'er much about Arya; her odd little one, born too soon and never held in Ned's arms.

Silence and silence and silence.

"I must do, what I must do, my love. For the family. For our children. Forgive me, please," she begged. "Trust me. As I trusted you and you trusted him."

And drained of tears and her burden, Catelyn wrapped hands around the sword pointed into the cold ground in order to pull herself a right. After two years, the blade was still quite enough, cutting her hands; though not badly, leaving an offering of blood to appease the Stark in Winterfell who mattered most to her.

* * *

The Council in the North had entered its seventh turning of the hourglass by Maester Luwin. The first few of them given over to either those lordlings showing support to her and House Stark or those lordlings who were secretly directed by their lieges to criticize all and everything done in Robb's name over the past two and a half years. Benjen, as head of the Regency Council, should by duty have directed the assignment of who spoke when, but he made no real effort at it; allowing his truculent fellow Northmen to wander this way and that, with plenty of interruptions and contradictions, in their litanies of praise and complaints.

Her goodbrother, in his mind, was already back at the Wall as far as she was concerned; appallingly wishing to wash his hands of his family and honor. Catelyn knew he liked her not; her fostering of the bastard to White Harbor the cause of the unrepairable breach between them – " _Jon is our blood. Stark blood. You wronged Ned by sending him away._ " She did not doubt he wanted her off the Regency Council, but despite their differences he was not so petty as to desire her thrown out of Winterfell and away from Robb.

However, the fool refused to understand, no matter how much she begged, that others did wish so and would use his indifference against her. At least he was not using his hosting of the Council to make war against her. Thankfully, she could use his unskilled handling of the proceedings to her own benefit.

While a majority of lords wanted her gone, as well as Lord Medger, Lord Halys, and Ser Wylis; there was far from a consensus among these same arrogant Northmen as to who should sit on Robb's Regency Council instead of them. The longer they argued about who deserved what, the more remote became the chances they would agree. And the greater the chance that she might peel a few of the less recalcitrant barbarians to join with her loyalists so that an acceptable accommodation might be reached.

"And I say bugger the Watch. You all know the Last Hearth don'y say those words lightly; sufferin' worst from them wildling scum's raiding. But it has to be said, bugger 'em. Bugger Jeor Mormont, though he be a good man." And he tipped his head a tad sheepishly towards Maege Mormont in saying it. "But mostly bugger you, Benjen Stark," the Greatjon raged. He then turned and pointed a tree trunk sized arm to focus his considerable ire on the only target close enough for. "Shame on you Benjen Stark, for running from yer family and hearth. Ned would be ashamed of you, leaving his son to the likes … to the no good likes of .. of, well, of all you greedy shites."

This last caused half an uproar of anger and half an out crying of mirth in the Great Hall.

If any here were a champion for Robb and Catelyn, it was, for better or worse, the Greatjon. Her goodbrother's face flushed, but he remained silent against the attack; as she knew he would. He had answered the question hours earlier. " _I gave an oath_." And that was all he would say on the matter.

Months earlier she had cajoled Jeor Mormont to write him, giving him leave to remain in Winterfell until Robb came of age. If his Lord Commander's word and his family's need would not sway the stubborn, traitorous crow, what hope did these simple lords have?

"Benjen Stark is not the only Stark run from his family," Ondrew Locke shouted as he rose to his feet. Catelyn suspected his antagonism grew mostly from concern over his granddaughter's nuptial status. "Where be Ned Stark's natural son, I ask you lords? Where is Jon Snow, the only other son of Stark blood? Cast out by the Southron women to be raised in the Faith of the Seven and not to believe in the Old Gods as his father did."

This accusation could not go unanswered and Wyman Manderly wobbled to his feet in anger; quickly joined by Wylis and Wendel. "Do not disparage the Seven nor those of us in the North who hold to them, Locke. Our oaths to House Stark are as strong as any of your own. And our swords and sword arms equally so if you would care to try them."

"Of course the old Walrus says so; he has the boy and will marry him to one of his daughters as soon as she flowers," proclaimed Lord Rodrik with disgust.

"I've plenty enough sword for the likes of a pissant like you too, Ryswell," Manderly snarled, setting his red jowls to quiver further.

"You sit on the Regency Council too. Why is House Manderly doubly blessed? Did I not lose a husband by Lord Eddard's side," Lady Barbrey complained. "When does Barrowton's word get taken into account in the works of Winterfell?"

"You are not even a proper Dustin, Lady Ryswell," Galbart Glover sniped sarcastically. "My cousin Ethan fell in Dorne too, but you have not heard me bitch about the Deepwood's needs. You only still sit in Barrow Hall thanks to Lord Eddard's sufferance; and from his love for Lord Willam. Ronald Dustin should hold title by all _true_ accounts."

A general, pleasing, outburst of bickering of a whole slew of grievances broke out. The more discord the better Catelyn thought; her eyes could not fly fast enough around the Great Hall to keep track of who said what to whom in support of or against her or even if it was at all relevant to …

"ENOUGH!"

For a room engulfed in a cacophony, that an outburst could cut through the noise was startling. Triply so that the inexplicably loud voice came out of the mouth of Roose Bolton. The crescendo of noise lower to a dull roar.

The pale faced, quiet man smiled sardonically at all the faces agape at his unexpected blaring utterance. "I despise you all," he announced in his usual soft voice, causing the lords and ladies in the Great Hall to lean forward to hear him. "And if I must hear more of your childish bickering, I fear I must slit my own throat with my flaying knife; regardless of how much it would pain me to know what pleasure you all would take in it."

Silence met this unusual pronouncement.

Catelyn sat confused, trying to calculate what the Dreadfort was trying to accomplish. The only allies he might have here were the Ryswells and Lady Barbrey, parent and siblings to his young son Domeric's mother. And they had come across as hostile to Winterfell.

Then the Greatjon started laughing. A few joined in until the hairy giant roared gleefully, "I'll slit your throat for you if you wish, Bolton. Or break it with my hands if you'd rather," which caused significantly more in the room to join in.

"To no longer be forced to listen to you bray like the giant arse you are Umber, a third of the lords here might join me," the Lord of the Dreadfort replied without a seeming ounce of humor.

"Aye, they might just," agreed the Greatjon with a huge snicker. "So who's with Bolton?"

"By the Old Gods, don't forget the ladies either," announced Maege Mormont, rising up from among her parcel of daughters; where they sat not far from Umber. Then she wrinkled her nose. "Could you not have bathed, Jon?" the doughty looking woman accused scathingly.

That last quip set the whole of the Great Hall off on a burst of raucous laughter, even Catelyn joined in despite most of her brain still trying to work out why and to what purpose this outburst was occurring.

"Give me your vote, Maege, and I'll let you bathe me yourself," the Greatjon clamored through the hurly burly.

"I've already seen enough of you naked to know not all of you be giant, Littlejon. But aye, you have my vote whatever it be for," the Lady of Bear Island declared. "No one doubts you loved Ned best of us lords and would see the best for his bairn; and Winterfell too."

Perhaps Howland Reed might have disputed that proclamation, but he remained silent as a vast cheer went up from those lordlings and sons and daughters sitting around both Umber and Mormont.

"What does the Dreadfort receive for giving you my vote?" Bolton's voice somehow cut through the tumult.

"A betrothal of my daughter Bearena for your Domeric!"

The moon faced lord paused a moment to consider and then nodded his head "yes" once.

"And what of Deepwood Motte?" bellowed Galbart Glover.

Confusion reigned for a second upon Greatjon's huge, open visage. He took a deep breath. "Have Robett marry sweet Sybelle Locke and your brother has a seat on the Regency Council!" the great oaf cried, causing an uproar of slightly more parts excitement than consternation as the dimmest speaking lord of the North began auctioning off seats to that which did not belong to him.

"By the Seven," Catelyn cursed under her breath in amazement.

* * *

As she walked in her Stark colored cloak down the twisting path opened for her and Benjen, Catelyn judged she had never seen the Godswood so full before. For once the sounds of people murmuring and shifting where they stood packed together drowned out the preternatural quiet that filled this Old Gods' haunted wood. And the ravens that frequently habited the eerie grove, who should have been disturbed by so massive an intrusion, respectfully refrained from adding their CAW! CAW! CAW! to the ceremony.

Greatjon Umber had served Robb, herself, Ned, House Stark, and Winterfell well, exceptionally well, a week earlier. She nodded gratefully towards him as she passed his hulking form on the last curve, earning a wink back from him.

The newly chosen Regency Council awaited her in front of the heart tree: Robett Glover – brother of Lord Galbart, Roger Ryswell – heir of the Rills and brother of Lady Dustin, Leobald Tallhart – brother of Lord Helman and married to the younger sister of Lord Halys, Donnel Flint – heir of Clan Flint, and lastly her trusted steward, dear Vayon.

All notable enough in their own way, but none too notable that the Great Lords of the North had cause to do anything more than grumble into the dregs of their wine cups from the toast that had sealed the grand bargain made at the Council in the North. " _I didn't gain power over the boy lord and Winterfell, but at least none of those others did either._ "

When she and Benjen stopped in front of the weirwood, carved face staring down into her Southron, Seven faithful soul, four of the lords stepped aside to stand beside her children: Arya, holding Robb's hand, and on the other side of him, Sansa, beside whom stood her betrothed – ten year old Torrhen Karstark, the price of Lord Rickard's vote. This left Catelyn only her betrothed to face in front of the crowd.

"Who gives this bride away?"

"I, Benjen, formerly of House Stark and now a Brother of the Night's Watch, give my goodsister way as bride."

"I, Catelyn, of House Stark, am the bride."

Her dear friend looked at her kindly. She recognized that he too was making a sacrifice of sorts on her behalf. She had upon a time considered Ser Rodrik, also a widower, as a possible groom; but despite his and his house's evident loyalty to Robb, his worship of the Seven would only add fuel to the backbiting in the North against her.

"I, Vayon, Lord of House Poole, come to marry this woman."

"Catelyn, do you accept Vayon as your new lord and husband?" Benjen asked.

"I take this man," she answered.

Vayon smiled and stepped forward and to her side so that they were next to each other. Then they joined hands and knelt towards the heart tree, heads bowed. " _Forgive me Ned_ ," she prayed over and over at her betrayal of his memory. " _Keep Robb and Sansa and Arya safe_."

Too soon she felt Vayon tugging her back to her feet.

He stepped behind her, arms reaching over her shoulders to unclasp the thick ice white wool emblazoned with a grey wolf. Vayon slipped it off her shoulders and passed it over to Benjen.

Young Jeyne, her Sansa's best friend in Winterfell and Vayon's only child, then stepped forward holding a different cloak – one with a large blue dot on a grey-white field; it overflowed her wee arms.

The new mantle fit, if not perfectly, about her. She was now wed; no longer officially neither a Tully nor a Stark, though in her heart she would remain both forever.

Her lord and husband picked her up. By tradition he would carry her in his arms to the wedding feast. But first they would make a stop; the payment of her dowry for this marriage and Vayon's place on Robb's Regency Council.

* * *

Stoically, Catelyn forbade herself to cry.

The flames soared high in the air as the blaze which crept up the walls finally reached the roof.

She would not use the smoke as an excuse for why tears might be seen in her eyes.

Vayon understandingly held her hand and periodically gave it a comforting squeeze.

The first of the seven walls of the building at last yielded enough to cave in with a crash.

The gathered Northmen gave a cheer.

Several who had attended the wedding, led by the Manderlys, had not stopped to witness the destruction of the Sept that Ned had built for her.

For Robb's sake, she was only a Northron woman now.

" _Forgive me Mother, Father,_ " Catelyn Tully whispered deep in her tortured, withered heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lysa Arryn POV**

 **Eyrie, 293**

There her ancient husk of a husband sat, slurping away at his prune laden porridge or gumming something else soft around his few remaining bad teeth, ignoring her as he always did; nose and weak eyes buried in a pile of scrolls and tallies provided near daily by the talented young new Steward of the Vale. A Lord Paramount of two and seventy years could not be expected to personally keep vigorous track of the doings in his kingdom, especially from a holdfast, no matter how magnificent, located thousands of feet up on a shoulder of the Giant's Lance, the tallest peak in all the Mountains of the Moon. Though stooped and slowing in body, the mind absorbing the news and figures from off the various papers was still too keen for nervous Lysa's comfort.

Soon enough, Jon Arryn hacked as something a bit too large, perhaps a hardboiled egg, lodged in his withered gullet. The papery thin, loose skin on his throat bobbed and jiggled as he coughed. His age splotched face began to turn a purplish red from exertion. The pair of loyal servants and one page in the solar overseeing them break their fast all paused in concern, waiting to see whether an intervention might be necessary for her husband, who these ten long, dreadful years at steadfastly refused her the curtesy of choking to death all on his own.

"Drink some tea, dear," she urged. Her voice or her tremors must have been just enough to awaken her sweet Robyn from drowsing at her nipple. Roused, he returned eagerly to nursing, causing Lysa to force herself to remain calm lest her precious milk curdle on her babe in her excitement.

"aauuffffff," he at last wheezed, the obstruction in his throat finally cleared. Rheumy eyes then sought for his cup as she directed, and finding it, Jon readily brought it to his lips. The bony neck apple jerked up and down as he emptied its contents. "Ahhhh," he exclaimed with relish. Another deep breath, then, "A lovely brew. Sweet of you to make it for me each morning, Lysa dear," he complimented her for it as he frequently did.

"My pleasure, my husband," she answered earnestly, an accompanying cheery smile on her lips.

His lips rubbed together in a familiar sign of pleasure and he asked, "Is there any more?"

"Of those Myrish leaves I've used the last seven days, alas no," she sighed sadly with slight exaggeration.

Though Lysa was treated as grandly as a Queen could be in the confined space of the Eyrie, Arryn "tradition" required that each person serve themselves, and also their husbands if so inclined, from off a common table for the first meal of the day. Over the last six months she had extended that courtesy to include personally brewing Jon Arryn's morning tea.

"I could make more tea from other leaves. We've something fruity tasting in new from the Summer Isles," Lysa replied; then, purposefully clutching Robyn somewhat closer, she appeared to be making an effort to rise.

"No, no, don't disturb Robert," he lightly chided her with a soft smile for their son, whom he had commanded be named after that angry sot of a dead king. "Hermona, a cup of weak beer if you will," he called out to the girl nearest the beverage cart.

"Right away, milord. And for you, milady?" the little chit asked solicitously with a prompt curtsey. "Tradition" did not extend so strongly to refills or ancient lords or nursing ladies.

"Throw out those old leaves, rinse the strainer thoroughly, and brew some of the Summer Isle tea, Hermona," she commanded, and then added more pleasantly, "But a small glass of Hippocras in the meantime." It would be for the best if sweet Robyn napped later. The coming day would likely be a long, strenuous one.

Her husband's liver color mottled hand soon enough accepted the cup when it came and he turned his attention away from her, back to his precious parchments. While Lysa went back to slowly rocking and singing in a low, soft voice to Robyn; occasionally taking a sip of her sweet, spiced wine.

"Lord Arryn, Lady Arryn, good morn to you," that darling voice called out cheerily as ever from the entrance to the solar, sending a thrill up and down her entire being.

"My legs and ears, how are preparations below for Robert's First Name Day Tourney?" Jon asked jovially.

"All was in readiness when I went to bed at midnight and they appeared to have remained so when I arose at false dawn to make my assent," Lord Petyr Baelish declared with a confident grin. "I've bribed that scoundrel band of mice besieging your Gates of the Moon to lay off the next fortnight, milord; but I don't trust the little imps to keep to their word," he japed in a purposefully over-serious tone.

Jon guffawed and Lysa giggled at her Littlefinger's amusing quip. The introduction of his witty ways to the Eyrie had shed a revealing light on hidden aspects of her husband's personality; the ways she saw him deal with Robert Baratheon the scowling King as opposed to the endlessly retold stories of Robert Baratheon the wicked squire to the Lord of the Vale.

"If you have not yet eaten, join us and fill me in on the latest," Jon Arryn kindly directed his steward. "Not that you've left little for me to discover," he added with a light laugh, gesturing at the records splayed out in front of him.

"Oh a drib here and a drab there. Lady Waynwood and young Hardyng arrived late on the Gathering Field to join the already assembled Corbrays, Lynderlys, and Graftons. All eager to get knocking each others heads on the lists," delightful Petyr announced with an air of entertained incomprehension as he walked over to address the food cart.

"Which lords should arrive today?" Jon inquired. While Robyn's name day was not for another five days, her son's tourney was to officially start in three.

"Of the major ones? Let me think. Ah, Lord Horton, for one. I hear Lord Eon's gout has acted up and he won't arrive today as previously expected. But Lord Benedar's belly has taken a drastic turn for the better and he should arrive by dusk. Oh, is this fresh brewed tea? Lovely." And he poured himself a cup before coming over to take a relaxed seat between Lysa and her husband; disciplined enough not to chance a glance at her lovely, half exposed breast upon which Robyn suckled.

Jon stroked the rough skin of his face and muttered through the missing names he found in his mental list of banner lords in organized, alphabetical order: "Breakstone, Donniger, Elesham, Hersy, Moore, Pryor, Yohn Royce, Templeton, and Wydman."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Lord Jon, don't forget your cousins from Gulltown," her dear Mockingbird chastised his lord.

"Ha!" the old man barked in amusement. "Thought we were talking of major lords, Petyr." His dislike of his distant cousins was well known; though Petyr had intimated to her that he himself had reached an amiable accommodation with them whilst the Eyrie's Customs Inspector to the Vale's only city and full port.

"From my hereditary seat amongst the sheep pellets littering the Drearfort, I fear even sweet Hermona there appears a lady of such stature as to leave me trembling in awe of her power."

This made Jon cackle all the more; while Lysa only smiled wanly, displeased at Petyr referring to a mere serving girl as "sweet." It mattered not to her that he had confided six months ago that all the servants currently in the Eyrie were now "theirs" and to be trusted with almost any confidence, with only the guards left to fully suborn; though none, of course, ever to the point where Jon Arryn would be gainsaid.

Her Littlefinger used the interruption offered by her husband's mirth to take a sip of his tea and threw a naughty wink her way from the eye close to her and not her husband.

"Much as I enjoy your wit near as much as your work as steward, Petyr; there was little reason for you make the assent. Well you know I planned to descend today," Jon gently chided her Littlefinger's appearance by her side.

"Am I not Steward of the Eyrie? I must attend my prodigious duties here. In your absence, who will see Lady Lysa and young Lord Robert prepared for the tourney? This work you have tasked me at the Gates of the Moon is quite temporary and your taking up residence there before the start of young Robert's First Name Day Tourney will be a relief, I must say, my Lord Arryn," Petry protested right back just as lightheartedly. The brilliantly talented mind undoubtedly having left little true work for Jon to perform upon his descent other than greeting and feasting with his gluttonous, o'er full of themselves banner lords.

Lysa could not contain herself. "Truly, my lord husband, has not Lord Petyr proven himself this past year in his extra duties. Reward him. Name him Keeper of the Gates of the Moon. No, also name him Steward of the Vale. You call him your 'legs and ears' for a reason." Catelyn had shown her the way. Steward of the Eyrie might suffice, but Steward of the Vale and Keeper of the Gates of the Moon were so much more impressive titles than her sister's drab Poole had ever held.

Her dotard of a husband sighed heavily. This was not the first time she had raised her want on this matter, but the first she had done so with Petyr in their presence.

"Lady Lysa, have I somehow lost the affection you once had for me when we were children, that you would cast me out the Moon Door to no longer grace the soaring heights of the Eyrie?" her Littlefinger accused her with what she knew was pretend hurt.

"Do not play wicked with me, Lord Petyr," she returned at him with a smug smile. "Does he not have the talent to thrive in the sinecure more than dead Nestor Royce ever did, my lord husband?" she both accused and placated with her question.

The Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, and once Hand of the King smiled painfully. "It is not a question of ability, my dear Lady, …" he condescended to her.

"It is a question of blood, Lady Lysa," her Littlefinger stated plainly to conclude Jon's sentence; undoubtedly secretly working for them while pretending to go against her. He must be. Petry had ever been so frightfully clever and they were meant to be together. "Born in the Drearfort, Steward of the Eyrie is as high of a title as the proud Lords of the Vale would allow any lordling like me to rise," her lover concluded, having rehashed the ever present problem between them and their dream. Then, "And young Lord Robert's tourney would make an excellent opportunity, Lord Jon, to name loyal Ser Vardis as Keeper of the Gates of the Moon."

"Pooh," Lysa pouted at being thwarted again.

"T'would. You've championed him before, Petyr," her husband half grumbled. "Still, great service deserves reward. I will think on it." The old man smile mischievously, "Any suggestions for me, young Baelish?"

"Ha, and prove how selfish and greedy I truly am? I thought my lord did not take his steward for a great fool?" her Littlefinger rejoined with an accusing smile.

Lysa missed this playful wit when he was away, as he had been too much of late. Soon enough she would openly have more than just his wit to play with. The thought of his touch made her toes curl.

Jon Arryn gave him a long, hard stare; then relented and asked, "Then who would you suggest take over for Ser Vardis as Knight of the Gate? He did well there taking over for Ser Brynden – the Vale's loss but the Kingsguard's gain. Even so, the damnable mountain clans grow more bold every day. A strong hand is needed there."

"Why not Ser Lyn?" Lysa recommended, as Petyr had cleverly suggested she do so when last he briefly visited her in secret, near a fortnight ago. "He and _Lady Forlorn_ gave valiant service to House Arryn in winning the Trial by Combat against treacherous Nestor Royce." In truth that had been a double edged victory, promotion in rank for her dear Littlefinger but taking him off the mountain for weeks at a time.

"Aye, he has the piss and vinegar for it. I remember he defeated Prince Lewyn Martell at the Trident," Jon Arryn sighed wistfully, an old man reliving the excitement of younger days further away than the inevitable was near. "Though I like him and his brash ways little," he added hastily. "And your thoughts, Petyr?"

He smiled winningly. "My lord knows I am no captain of war like yourself, but while a strong hand is needed, the Mountain Clans are not ones much for pitched battles. Perhaps an older, more experienced, yet not timid knight would be better. Ser Jaspar Redfort is a proven warrior and the Redfort's loyalty to the Eyrie has never been in question," he replied with the subtlest hint of doubt in his voice. "Or Lord Hunter's youngest son, Ser Harlan, if you'd rather, Lord Jon," her Littlefinger suggested with more certainty.

Lysa hid her smile, knowing that Petyr had made friends with Ser Harlan, who bore grudges against two older brothers and a father as old as Jon Arynn that also refused to die gracefully.

The dotard nodded his thinning head of grey hair sagely at the advice. "And if a general campaign is needed against the Black Ears and Burned Men and Painted Dogs and Moon Brothers?" he followed up.

Lysa gasped in surprise, those thoughts of her husband being new to her, yet she knew the dutiful role she must keep playing. "You will not risk yourself to such danger, my lord husband. What of Robyn were something to happen to you?" she sniped, firing the strongest arrow in her quiver. The thought of his death vibrated so strongly through her body that once again her precious babe, unfortunately but necessarily formed from his seed, stirred in her arms.

Jon Arryn chuckled softly. "See how fondly my lady wife cares for me, Petyr. You'd be a lucky husband to find a woman half so devout."

"I belief you, my lord," her Littlefinger agreed with a straight face.

"Fear not, dear one. My days spent a horse in war gear are passed," he continued.

"Praise the Seven for that," she exclaimed with a false heart.

"Once down at the Gates of the Moon, I will start judging my banner's enthusiasm for bloodying the clans' noses. Lord Yohn, I think, to lead them; if they and him seek more excitement than our Robert's little tourney."

"Smartly thought, my Lord," Petyr agreed. "T'will show Lord Royce that the stain of his cousin's dishonor does not reach his surcoat in the eyes of House Arryn."

Jumped up, ugly Nestor Royce's fall had come from a long, secret campaign of mismanaged accounts under the control of the so called Steward of the Vale and third party bribes made on behalf of advancing his unlucky children through supposedly discrete, silent partners that her Littlefinger had both set in motion and unraveled to the old Keeper of the Gates of the Mountain's surprise and honor wounded indignant dismay.

"It would not do for our sweet Robyn to see Runestone any enemy of the Eyrie," Lysa gushed in agreement. Lord Yohn was older but formidable in the same kind of way as Uncle Blackfish had always seemed to her; and thus frightened her.

"I do think of our Robert," her husband announced sternly, condescending to annunciate "Robert" distinctly in blatant opposition to the "Robyn" she always referred to their child by. "The best way to protect my son is with another brother," he announced indelicately, not shying from the topic despite Petyr's presence in the solar. "It has been a year, Lysa," he said baldly.

She felt her face flush. Lysa had sworn to never experience that again. Robyn, first her pregnancy and then her unyielding demand that she alone nurse him, had kept that wrinkled old body from rutting up against her. She fought back the shivers of horror threatening to crawl all over her skin at the memory of it - his fetid mouth breathing into her face, his naked ...

"Then no time like the present to get started, my lord, my lady," Petyr cried with a laugh, standing up suddenly. "Delightful tea. Come along too Hermona, Ronnel, I've heard rumor that a speck of privacy is warranted for such auspicious undertakings. I'll have the basket ready to lower you to Sky in two hours, Lord Arryn. That is if you believe that a sufficient amount of time for you to …" and he waggled his eyebrows up and down while his face leered suggestively.

The raunchy jape left her husband sputtering so hard in laughter that spittle actually dribbled out of the side of his mouth.

"Petyr Baelish you are so very, very wicked," she said, barely even being able to harp at his lascivious wit to hide her bitterness. In truth, Lysa Tully would only ever permit her Littlefinger to breed with her again ... to make a full blooded brother for the one the ogre Hoster had murdered with his lies and tansy and mint and wormwood. Let him complain and try to move against her wishes when the time came, she would spit in his face.

The Steward of the Eyrie and Lord of her heart smirked approvingly at her response.

* * *

From where she stood on an outward facing balcony of the Moon Tower, Lysa watched the small seeming but large basket as it came slowly out from the shadows cast by the High Tower, descending from beneath its entry point near the kitchens. In the two and a half years since escaping King's Landing for the cage of the Eyrie, she had only allowed herself to leave House Arryn's main castle twice. Both times coming and going from Sky via the basket. She was neither strong nor brave enough to take the ramps and steps cut into the side of the Giant's Lance.

Above her, a bird and then another flew out of the rookery. Unlike her, they could fly, and safely, to wherever they wished.

Lysa doubted whether with even Petyr by her side, short of Winter, she could attempt to depart for any circumstance in the coming years. Jon, whose advanced age now permitted him the use of the basket with no disgrace, and all the lords of the Vale expected her in three days to not only make the descent, but to do so with sweet Robyn. So that they might in the Seven's eyes see for themselves a healthy heir of House Arryn and pledge fealty to him as they renewed their oaths to her son's father.

That would not happen. Darling Petyr had assured her that those lords would come to her. Bowing in the High Hall as she sat on the weirwood throne of the Arryns with her precious babe safe in her arms. There was much that her Littlefinger had assured her would happen. Assured her.

Doubt still lingered in her heart. Dear Cat had shown the way. Or the beginning of the way. It had taken a long time to convince her lover that this was the path they must tread in order to be together. So long so that she had almost started to question whether his love for her equaled her love for him.

Despite the misery of King's Landing: brutal, unkind Robert, conceited, harping Cersei, the disgusting eunuch, the stench filled city, the court packed with greedy, grasping liars, and suffering through two still births and three miscarriages; had she not always thought of him? Who had convinced her husband to give Petyr a chance to show his brilliance? She had. Who had wooed Jon Arryn into bringing the boy whom she had given her maidenhead to to the Eyrie itself?

He owed her much and had come around to seeing her wisdom; all thanks to Cat, who never loved Petyr like she had. And would now never have the chance.

"You look lovely today, Lady Arryn."

The thrill returned even stronger. She barely contained herself from running into his arms.

"You are a wicked creature to so compliment a lady in her lord husband's absence, Lord Petyr," she countered him with pleasure based in his assurance that their time together was near. Assured her so thoroughly that with the tad more Hippocras she had drunk to get Roby to fall asleep her nerves barely twitched.

"If you had come to the Crescent Chamber to see Lord Arryn off, I would have said it to his face," he declared boldly while gently chastising her failure to see her husband make the start of his descent.

"If I had come to the Crescent Chamber he might have asked for a kiss, is that something too you would do to his face?"

"Ha, just so. Me thinks the Lady wins that round," her Littlefinger laughed in amusement, now standing like her along that balcony railing - five feet away as a sign of propriety for any spying eyes as they watched the basket carrying Jon Arryn alone arrive at Sky. Only her begging that Colemon remain behind to tend to little Robyn and the wee cough he had developed had kept the maester from going with him.

"Come to my chambers tonight," she whispered huskily.

"Sweet, silly girl, we have been over this before. Not tonight. And not for a month of nights. I yearn for your touch though my blood screams, yet we must be circumspect. This is merely your nerves talking, my delicious one," he chided her in a soft, consoling tone.

"This will work," she half stated and half questioned.

"All of it, if we play our roles in this Game of Thrones well," he answered proudly, patting his breast suggestively.

"He signed it?" she said with a rushed hush.

"And applied his sigil. Oh, look," Petyr interrupted his thoughts, pointing downward, "there he goes." A small train of mules was passing out of the rough, bolder made wall of Sky. Her Littlefinger cleared his throat. " _So sorry to bother you, my lord. Just a few more parchments for you, I forgot them earlier. Your response to King Stannis. And that set to your inspectors and wardens in Gulltown, I fear. Ah, thank you so much, I'll see that the maester sends off the ravens straight away._ "

"My Steward of the Vale is wise," she declared with pleasure.

"An opinion that Lord Gerold Grafton, Lord Benedar Belmore, and Lord Jon Lynderly will agree to when you present Lord Arryn's wishes to them," he answered with deep satisfaction.

"And Lyonel Corbary?"

"When Ser Lyn violently denounces me? Techt. What other position than my friend could his brother, Lord Lyonel, possibly take."

"So that is why you had me speak on his behalf to Jon as the next Knight of the Bloody Gate; and you against. Have you been spreading naughty tales about Ser Lyn around the Vale, dear heart?"

Her Littlefinger's eyes danced. "You know me too well, sweetling."

She dug her nails into the marble bannister, resisting with all her might from flying into his arms. She must play her part though it tore at her; to play the widow who woos the widower and bachelor lords of the Vale as they gathered about her and Robert, like vultures to a juicy carcass. "And we truly must wait to marry until your position is more secure?" she warbled woefully.

"Seeing their fellow lords bend the knee so quickly, others will follow suit immediately. Sheep. The wolves will bow to Robert, how could they not; but they will hang back for a while until they see no other course than acquiesce."

Fear and uncertainty quivered within in these last moments.

"Ten years we have struggled against the darkness, Lysa," he now soothed her with his quietest, most endearing voice. "We can see the light at the end of our journey, together. Give me another two years to bend them and I will be yours."

Reassured again, peace infused her soul at the thought of it. At last, joined, as she had known from the first day the energetic, handsome young boy arrived at Riverrun to foster and drive her mad with what she knew not. And then the doubt, which ever gripped her at inconvenient times, reached out again. "That is … if …" and she nodded knowingly down the mountainside.

He smiled, supremely confidently, at her. "The tea is most effective, sweetling. I occasionally ran across the most disreputable scoundrels at times as Customs Inspector in Gulltown. Some of these assassins would slit their own mother's throat for a halfpenny, but get them to boast of their prowse and you never heard a more loquacious, truthful vermin. You did brilliantly brewing the poison for him. Oh yes, he will …" and then Petyr's voice cut out a moment. Then, with pretend sadness. "Oh, look, someone's fallen off their mule. I wonder who it might be?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Jon Snow POV**

 **White Harbor, 295**

He feinted … feinted … feinted …

And Ser Wendel refused to fall for any of them; that annoying, perpetual jolly grin that plastered his walrus tusked face whenever the knight was in the training yard broke visibly open beneath his half helm's nasal bar and above the top of his judiciously moving oak and iron strapped shield.

Without a care for his much younger, shorter, shorter reached, and lighter opponent, Ser Wendel methodically pressed ahead on nimbler feet than his hefty weight should have permitted.

TANG!

For a moment their tourney blades crossed; instantly his opponent's thick wrist started to twist in order to catch and wrench his sword aside or, worse, completely out of his hand.

But Jon had learned his lessons well; keeping a strong, yet flexible grip on the pommel, he slipped off the contact.

Woosh!

No respite, he jumped back to avoid the bottom of a shield flying out to clip him. Even at the start of the session, the sinewy young bastard lacked the strength to contest shield on shield contact with the massive knight. It was difficult, tremendously slow, to be so winded, arms seemingly gilded down with an inch of iron, to keep his eyes open for every possible attack and for his mind to be the necessary steps ahead for the counter and the counter to the counter and the …

He pivoted from the straight ahead low stab that came at him partially hidden, but not enough so, from behind Ser Wendel's wide shield's attack.

"Agghhh," he gurgled, tired feet not maintaining their proper balance, tangling. Over he toppled. "Ooooof," burst uncontrolled from his mouth on hitting the hard packed earth.

His eyes widened. Somehow he had not fallen backwards or sideways, but forward. And he still grasped his sword. Barely more than an arm's length in front of him, two meaty ankles shod in metal disk laced leather boots happily presented themselves to the young man. Jon Snow desperately stabbed out for all he was worth.

TANG!

Seven Hells! His blade was smashed down, and then instantly trapped, by the iron clipped edge of Ser Wendel's shield against the ground.

Jon felt the none too gentle tap tap on his hauberk protected back. "I yield, Ser," he cried out in surrender.

"Well done, my boy, well done. Game to the end as you should be. Shall we go grab a bucket?" his personal master-at-arms chortled jovially whilst releasing the weight of the tourney blade from between his shoulders.

He rolled over in the dirt and watched Ser Wendel first sheath his blade and then extend a large hand down to him. The knight was ever polite and gentle to him; regardless of how hard he had to knock Jon around in teaching him his knightly lessons.

Jon, sword no longer in his grasp, reached up to accept the offer and almost flew through the air in being jerked back to his feet. After years of this regular treatment, his shoulders seldom ever ached afterward. Then the anticipated …

THWACK!

The wannabe knight staggered from the friendly, affectionate, powerful buffet.

"Come along and we'll quench our thirst!"

"That" still frequently left an unpleasant and lasting bruise despite an equal number of years on the receiving end.

The mismatched pair, tall and large versus short and slender, wove their way between the other practicing sets of men-at-arms and knights circling each other, swinging weapons, and grunting from the exertion of it in the New Castle's training yard. House Manderly took their fighting skills very earnestly and no morning ever passed without at least a score of men, and usually many more, going about the deadly serious business.

Along the way to the trough set against an interior wall along with a few benches, Ser Wendel called out greetings, distractions, and advice all cheerily. Jon liked and respected the knight very much; and, still further, had come to love the man within even more. He still occasionally wondered what his life might be like if Ser Wendel had married Lady Catelyn.

Years earlier, the Merman's Court had thought him too young to pay attention, let alone understand, all the turmoil and plans laid because of the death of his father and his exile from Winterfell. True, there had been much he had not followed; but he did grasp that Ser Wendel's long absences from White Harbor were because the honorable knight was helping Lady Catelyn to rule Winterfell and the North as well. And Lord Wyman had dearly hoped for a match between his youngest son and Lord Eddard's widow.

Would Jon have been allowed to return to Winterfell? To see his brother Robb and little sister Sansa again? And meet for the first time his youngest sister, named Arya; about whom people openly said actually looked like a Stark and whom he had he discretely overheard whispered was touched in the head by the heart tree. Or, as he grew a bit older and comprehended more, he then began to wonder whether that alliance would have come at the cost of sending him even farther away? Though the memories of her specific slights dimmed, the knowledge that Lady Catelyn was ever cold as Winter to her lord husband's bastard remained strong in his belly.

All had changed for the better for Jon three years ago. Not that the Manderlys' had treated him with anything less than kindness and generosity before. Aye, his last name remained Snow, but never a snub came his way for it. Then, with Ser Wendel's permanent return to the New Castle, Jon found himself made an official page in the Merman's Court and the knight took to him as if the bastard was his long lost son. Though this morning was proving a bit of a disappointment with regards to that unofficial status of his.

And the unchivalrous place in Jon's heart, which Ser Wendel always cautioned him against listening to, had taken spiteful glee in knowing of the icy break between House Manderly and Lady Catelyn. Caused not by just who Lady Catelyn did marry, but by the great sin of burning Winterfell's Sept. Thankfully, he heard nary a poor word, and he kept his knacky bastard ears wide open for such talk, spoken by the Manderlys about his brother Robb; they had been best of playmates.

"AAaaahhhhhh, that's better," Ser Wendel exclaimed, removing his helm to reveal a bald, sweat spotted dome in vast contrast to the immense mustache and chin whiskers the agreeable walrus sported.

Jon smiled and emulated him. The salty breeze felt good moving through his thick, sweat matted black locks. "To the victor go the spoils, Ser Wendel," he said, gesturing to the bucket floating in the trough.

The knight's jowls wobbled in laughter. "And such sweet spoils. Don't mind if I do, boy. You had me hopping today." He grabbed the pail and dunking it beneath the surface to fill it to the rim.

"EEEeeeeooowwwww!" Jon squealed in surprise as a flood of water spilled over his head and gushed down inside his hauberk.

"Bwahahahaha! Happy Name Day, Jon!" the walrus roared in waggish delight.

"You knew!" he accused hotly, jiggling his body in a vain attempt to usher the pooling water out of his soaked things.

"Course I did, boy. But when you showed up to spar this morning, not taking up my lord father's gift of release from _all_ your chores today; well then … such a fool deserves whatever japes come his way. Don't you think?"

"I'd never miss a lesson with you, Ser!" he expostulated eagerly. Ser Wendel had certainly not gifted him an easier session than norm despite knowing after all what special day it was.

Jon found his now drenched hair tousled affectionately. "That's my boy."

Then truthfully he added, "But for Maester Theomore? Or Septon Cryer? Or the Steward?" He couldn't help but grin wickedly.

"Scoundrel," the knight fake mocked, while turning back to the trough to fill the bucket again; presumably for his own needs this time, Jon kept a suspicious eye on him none the less. Ser Wendel did enjoy his pranks so long as they did not interfere with his duty or honor.

Satisfied, Jon bent and grabbed a ladle hooked on the edge to slake the thirst he felt which his sodden things could not assist in appeasing.

When each was finally content with their own various waterings, man and youth parked themselves – one dry and one soaked – on the long benches in the shade of the wall and started to talk through and analyze the concluded round of combat.

Not too long in, a big boot conspiratorially nudged Jon's foot. He stopped the description of his reasoning on why he chose to parry instead of duck one of the knight's high cuts in mid-sentence and refocused from seeing through his mind's eye back to watching with his actual eyes, looking up at Ser Wendel.

"Have you been naughty already on your name day, boy?" the walrus asked in a loud, amused whisper.

"Nnn … no," he answered in some confusion. Before hitting the training ground, the pantry girl had demanded that kiss in payment for not raising the alarm when he tried to sneak unnoticed out of the larder with the pair of large raspberry tarts. She had tasted of mint and beer. Wylla had thought it enormously funny upon hearing his wistful recounting of it when he handed over her take from the plunder.

"Well I can't imagine why the Captain of the Guard would be looking for an innocent knight like myself," Ser Wendel chortled.

"Ha!" Jon laughed, feeling relieved, glimpsing over to see Ser Marlon approaching in full regalia: blue green cloak draped over silver armor, a Merling-King helm a fixed his head, and a trident in hand.

"Hail, cousin," Ser Wendel greeted him.

"Good morrow, Ser Wendel, Master Jon," the older knight answered. "Lord Wyman wishes to see Master Jon in his private solar."

"Hoho," warbled the walrus, a mischievous smile breaking out on his face as thick eyebrows danced a jig on his brow.

Jon gulped. The Lord of White Harbor seldom ever spoke to, let alone summoned, him during the day. As a page assigned to the Merman's Court, if Lord Wyman was hearing petitions or Jon was on general duty in the keep, well then, of course there were times his lordship addressed him directly. However, friendly conversations and words of lordly advice were typically left for the family dining room, which Jon was always invited to when Lord Wyman was not hosting some notable visitor to table.

Seeing his stricken look, Ser Wendel relented and tried to assuage his nerves, "Nothing serious, I hope, Ser Marlon?"

"Not for me to say, Ser Wendel," the Manderly knight stodgily replied.

Ser Wendel ruffled his thick whiskers. "Most like my lord father wishes to speak with you on your name day." Then he smiled, as if remembering something. "Perhaps a present. I have one for you myself. Be sure to remind me when we sup this night, hear me?"

Jon nodded.

"Now off with you. The Lord of White Harbor requires prompt obedience."

* * *

Ser Marlon proved his normal taciturn, though not malicious, self in escorting Jon through the New Castle's ample, but neither Wintefell sized nor twisted like a weirwood root, space with a minimum of speech. While it was still early for the Merman's Court to be in session, there were no supplicants yet lined up waiting to be heard; which meant the guards at the castle main gate had been instructed not to allow petitioners in that day.

The guards at the main doors to the Great Keep saluted their captain as the two entered. They walked down the private narrow hall direct to the stairs up to the family quarters; all of the walls of which were festooned with the standard Manderly decoration: rusted iron weapons, chipped or dented or rent old shields, faded banners, and the occasional worm eaten and paint eroded figure head off the bow of some no longer floating ship where space allowed such a large piece to fit.

Along the way, Jon could not shake a sense of trepidation that his life was about to change, for good or for ill. Then when the page, little Symeon Moss, opened the door to the solar, all Jon could thankfully see was Lord Wyman's kind, open, smiling face greeting him.

"Take a seat, Jon," he found himself commanded.

"Beg pardon, my lord, but I am … a bit damp."

The large lord squinted a bit at him from his wide chair behind weirwood desk decorated with etchings of seashells. "Har, that you are, young master. Were you sparring with Wendel or bobbing for mermaids in the inner harbor, har har? Go take your leaky fundament o'er by the fire and dry off a mite."

Gladly he scooted over to the hearth and spread his arms and legs wide to accept the warmth. The fire wasn't blazing, but it helped; one was always burning round his lordship, for though Summer had already supposedly lasted longer than most, White Harbor was ever damp thanks to being set up against the firth that led into the briny Bite. And Lord Wyman suffered from both gout and arthritis, which the damp unhappily exacerbated fiercely.

Jon politely refrained from trying to adjust his bunched up small clothes. Ser Marlon had at least allowed him the few seconds necessary to take off his hauberk and unbuckle his practice sword before marching him out of the training yard. Still, he could not repress a satisfying sigh as he imagined steam leaving his garments.

"Better then?" Lord Wyman chuckled.

Embarrassed, Jon in a contrite tone answered, "Yes, my thanks, my lord."

"Pleased I was to hear you went to spar this morning, Jon. Not that I'd have chastised you one whit if you'd chosen to sleep in on your name day. Becoming a knight is a serious obligation and accomplished only by its share of hard work," the lord preached.

"Yes, my lord," he murmured in agreement.

"Warms my heart to see you take after your father in the field. He never spoke of it, not the sort to boast he was, Lord Eddard; but I heard it after much cajoling from Lord Howland Reed, how your father slew the Sword of Dawn. Nothing worse than a knight who forgets his vows, that one. Any how, t'was a great and valiant deed. A man, a knight, never knows when great things will be required of him. But it is his duty to be ready in body and mind for such … contingencies, don't you think?"

"I do, my lord." Though father had never spoken of it, everyone in Winterfell was aware of that glorious victory. One so different than war. More a tale that the bards sang of, surprisingly not that Jon had ever heard one put it to lyre or harp.

"Whether he be lord or knight or man-at-arms or sailor or guildsman or crofter or servant. One must almost remember what is most important in life and be ready to defend it; regardless the odds, the cost, and aye, the fear too. Do you understand me, Jon?"

"I think so, my lord," he mumbled.

"Well, some of it, I suspect. I teach you what I can. Only age and experience will show the true value of those lessons; so you needn't think them in order to do what's right, but feel them in your very bones. And here." Lord Wyman thumped his chest over his heart hard. "And here too," he said with a jowl bouncing laugh, clasping both hands around the ponderous belly that spilled over his hidden belt and filled his lap. "Now enough of my pretty speeches, today is your twelve name day, Jon; and as my ward, it is my duty to tell you when the status of your fostering is to change," his lordship announced dramatically.

Jon's eyes grew large and his heart started to race. He had been correct to worry about coming change.

"Are you ready for the challenge? The hard work? Dare you be ready for meeting the challenge of great events?"

"I will try my best, Lord Manderly," he answered with an enthusiasm he hoped masked his doubts.

"Good. Good. What think you, Ser Marlon? Is young Master Jon ready?"

Flinty eyes stared out at him from underneath the older knight's grey mop of hair. "He might suffice. There are duller pages than him in your court, Lord Wyman ... but better behaved ones too."

"Just so. Just so. Any better with sword or trident?"

A minor grimace. Then grudgingly, "Perhaps not."

"Jon Snow!" the lord boomed.

"Yes, my lord," he replied crisply.

"On the morrow, at first light, I command you to attend to Ser Marlon as his squire. And for you to remain in that noble station until such time as Ser Marlon deems you worthy of knighting or accounts you a no good, laze about to be cast from his presence in dishonor. Will you agree to this and hence forth obey all that Ser Marlon sets out for you to accomplish?"

His nerves steadied and his heart swelled. This was a change he could well live with, thought a part of him felt sadness that he was not to be granted the privilege of attending to Ser Wendel as squire, but … "On my honor, I do, my lord! Ser!" he exclaimed happily to the two knights.

The Lord of White Harbor nodded sagely. "I believe you do, Squire Jon. And you, Ser Marlon, do you accept the awesome responsibility of guiding this very young man to the full potential the Seven have ordained for him?"

"By the _Warrior_ and the _Father_ , I so swear it, my lord," the older knight proclaimed proudly.

Lord Wyman slapped his hands down on the table with pleasure. "Excellent!" he proclaimed, beaming.

Once a celebratory round of rum, which caused Jon to sputter something fierce, was complete, Ser Marlon begged leave to return to his duties. When granted, it was followed by an admonition that Jon best show up on time on the morrow because the knight had already set aside many of his usual obligations so as to begin the proper training of a new squire on his many, many awesome responsibilities.

When Jon respectfully begged leave too, Lord Wyman answered, "Hold a moment more, my boy."

"Yes, my lord?" he said expectantly.

"I too have set aside my duties tonight, so that dinner will only be kin to feast with you on your name day, Jon."

He nodded and smiled, having expected, hoped, that it would be so. The line of kin with Manderlys was become very blurry in Jon's mind.

"There will be presents from those closest to you, but those are not the only name day gifts that have come for you."

Jon smiled even wider. Uncle Benjen always sent him something. Perhaps this year a gift had at last come from Winterfell. He had always made sure the Manderlys sent the presents he bought to Robb and Sansa; and even Arya whom he had never seen.

Lord Wyman lifted a substantial sack from behind his desk and set it on top. Jon's eyes bulged in greed, while noting the lord's face grow troubled.

"I call you "my boy," Jon; but at twelve name days you are verily no longer a boy. Yet you lack a man's years and understanding, despite, as people say, that bastards grow up faster than true born children."

"Is there news from Winterfell, my lord?" Jon hazarded softly. He always knew Lord Wyman was deadly serious whenever he referred to Jon's bastardy.

"Some. Lady Catelyn is expecting again. A brother or sister in six or so months for little Eddard Poole … if her Old Gods watch over her," Lord Wyman declared somewhere hazily between ire and despondence.

"Oh," was all Jon could muster in answer.

"However that means little to you, for Stark blood will not run through the child's veins; not like it does you. And that is why I wish to speak with you seriously on what lies within here." And he patted the promised bundle of loot on the desk. "Though you be named Snow, Stark blood runs in your veins and Lord Eddard whilst he lived acknowledged that openly for all the North to see." A heavy sigh followed.

Jon simply remained standing there, not having anything to say. His bastardy and the death of his father were ever painful subjects to him. Half his life had now been spent without the presence of his sole beloved parent. The appearance of him slowly fading from his memory, no matter how many times he stared in a mirror because all said he was the spitting image of him.

"The North remembers Eddard Stark and they remember you are his other son, Jon; for thanks to the damned Dragons the Stark pack is small, too small in fact."

He did not like the implication of those words. "Is Robb hurt? Ill?" he choked out.

"No, my boy, and it does you credit to ask so kindly of your brother. None here in my House wish any but the best for Lord Robb. But as your House says, "Winter is Coming." A sickness. An accident. Vile treachery even. Then where is House Stark? Where is the North?" Lord Wyman asked ominously, large hand again patting the bag of presents.

Jon gulped. He did not want this burden. "Surely Sansa?" he whispered.

"Aye. Most like. She is betrothed to her cousin Torrhen Karstark. The Karhold and the banners beholden to it would make a strong right hand to help guide Winterfell. Most like the boy would shorten his name back to simply Stark. And your House and the North would go on, like Spring follows Winter."

"But not all the lords of the North would be happy with Sansa?" he guessed.

The lord nodded sadly. "The Seven teach that all men are greedy. Vengeful. Too full of pride. Many resent how and by who the North is currently being ruled from Winterfell. These lords wish to come to your notice. Wish you to remember them fondly. Especially if … if …" Lord Wyman grimace again, unable or unwilling to give voice to the dreaded if.

"Return them, my lord. I want them not," he commanded firmly, feeling filthy inside for the greed he'd felt for these false presents only a moment earlier.

"No, Jon. If you are to become a man, a knight, well trained. You must not hide away. Before now, unknownst to you, I did return your name day presents. I kept you from my dinner table those nights I had lordly visitors I deemed might try to play their wicked games upon you."

Jon blinked in surprise. He had had no idea. His bastard's keen ears had never gleaned a clue of this.

"Consider this your lesson for today. One that neither Maester Theomore nor Septon Cryer could teach you." He pushed the heavy sack across the desk closer to Jon. "Take them, go to your bedchamber. Take note of who sent each one. And when you open the gift, my boy, whether it turn out to be coin or pretty bauble or useful tool, remember too the trap that lies at the heart of it," the large lord said with a weary sadness.

Jon looked at the bag and then back up at Lord Wyman's honest face with intense curiosity and a slowly realizing morbid dread. He cleared his throat nervously. "And what … what, my lord, should I think of … of the gifts I receive from you … and Ser Wendel … and all of your House?" he asked in a pained voice, tears rapidly forming at the corners of his Stark grey eyes.

"Those gifts are the strongest traps of all, my boy. They are the traps of love," the no longer jolly fat lord rasped back at him.

* * *

Jon did not follow Lord Wyman's command to open the poisoned presents in his bedchamber. Oh, he had moved in that direction initially; going up a flight on the main stairs and heading down the corridor that held his room. But only until he could slip unseen down the narrow servant's passage that serviced that section of the Manderly family's quarters.

Down the tight spiral stairs he had hopped two at a time, almost knocking a maid and an ashboy over; both times eliciting a "beg your pardon" out of his tight pursed lips – they would likely say nothing, his mischievous ways and good nature and bastard's standing were well thought of by most of the Steward's staff and they had long ago proven themselves allies by their willingness to stay mum about him.

On the ground floor, he had moved more circumspectly; crisscrossing halls and rooms to avoid guards and pages and guests and other blabbermouths. With great patience, he had then slipped into Lord Wyman's private audience chamber; not far off the rear of the Merman's Court. Silently crossing the Myrish rug that actually lay on the floor, he had first lit a spare candle and then pressed his hand against the one spot of wall not covered in old weapons or thread worn banners. The hidden door to the secret passage that lay beneath the Castle Stair, the stepped street that led up from the Wolf's Den beside the harbor up the hill to the New Castle, had opened noiselessly for him.

And after a dark and wet journey, Jon Snow had sat for the last hour, high up in the arms of the giant old heart tree that threatened to burst through every opening and crevasse of White Harbor's original castle; now a simple, under used, under staffed prison. He was alone, except for a solitary, ancient looking raven perched even higher up the tree than he was.

He oft came here when he needed to think. Ser Wendel, he knew, unburdened his heart in front of the tall statues in the Sept of the Snows. While he respected and even venerated to a degree the Seven, something within him, something Stark he suspected, moved him to seek peace and the unanswerable from a weirwood. Alas, the godswood in the New Castle was too watched. And the tree less than a thousand years old.

While this one. This gigantic beauty. It reminded him of Winterfell and Father. He missed them both.

Ten dragons, sixty moons, and three hundred stags lay stacked neatly in a divot in the wood, sharing the branch with him. He was rich, fabulously rich, thanks to the avarice of Flints and Hornwoods and Lockes and Ryswells and Condons and Slates and other houses major and minor. Did he so desire he could take ship out of White Harbor for anywhere in Westeros and have sufficient money to live out a life of leisure.

That which glittered was not all that he had pulled out of the sack of bribes. Lord Bolton had sent him a whalebone handled knife, Lord Lake a velvet cloak, Lord Bole a fine leather belt, Lord Waterman a sealskin coat, and Lord Marsh a pair of gold gilt spurs.

In his hand he held the most interesting present, contained on a scroll. At first glance he had wondered whether it was a letter from Uncle Benjen, who always wrote him for his name day. But upon opening the handwriting had shouted a woman's at him, and so it was; Lady Barbrey Dustin. Her husband had died for father in Robert's Rebellion; this much he knew of her. A horse was her present to him. The finest in her herd, she reputed. Set aside for him until such time as he visited her ladyship in Barrowton.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

He gathered himself and looked outward with eyes and ears.

Creak.

The squeal of the iron gate to the "unused" portion of the dungeons. He was not the only one it appeared to have used the secret passage. He set everything carefully down into the bottom of the crook that cradled him, and then peered over the edge.

"Jon?" the two familiar voices called out together in a loud whisper.

Old, one eyed, one legged Ser Bartimus, the castellan of the Wolf's Den claimed never to have revealed Jon's preferred hiding spot. Going so far as to even swear it upon the Old Gods that he seemed devoted to. Still, Jon doubted the knight's word. The man was drunk as often as he was sober. At least, so far as Jon knew, it was only the pair who had winnowed out his secret.

He waited silently.

"Jon?" they repeated a bit louder, circling around.

He kept his lips shut. One of them might one day be a "gift" too. As large a gift as any man could desire. He hadn't finished working out how he felt about that possibility yet.

"I'm climbing up," the younger one announced and he watched her through the gaps in the branches and blood red leafs approach the base.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

"Go away," he finally hissed.

"Told you he would be here, Wynafryd," Wylla declared triumphantly.

"Come down," the older sister called. "We snuck away from our lessons with Septa Mordane to spend your Name Day with you."

That did sound fun; though he wasn't sure whether he wanted fun at the moment. All the presents on the branch with him were weighing his heart down. Wylla made a move as if she intended to climb up anyway.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked.

"Going to Fishfoot Yard. Drinks. A mummer's show. Shopping. Food. Watching the small folks. I brought some silver and coppers," Wynafryd summarized.

He was hungry. And he wouldn't say no to a drink.

"Enough to pay a whore to take your maidenhead, if you dare," Wylla teased wickedly.

"An old whore," Wynafryd suggested cheekily.

"Or maybe a sailor," Wylla concluded with a giggle.

"Harharhar," he fake laughed. Peering more closely at them, they still wore their gowns. Not there best dresses, but of a quality above a mere servants; such that they might draw attention to them if they did enter Fishfoot. He still wore the simple, stained, smelly tunic and leather pants from training with the girls' uncle.

He reached down beneath him and tugged out the coat and the cape. "Catch," he called, dropping them over the edge. Then, "roll them in the dirt," he commanded. The gifts meant nothing to him; and Jon intended to remain anonymous and walking about unescorted with Lord Wyman's granddaughters was a poor way of remaining so.

The last thing he grabbed before climbing down was ten silver stags. For once the bastard would treat his friends and not the other way around. And the rest of his treasure would stay safe under the watchful eyes of the heart tree and the old raven.

* * *

The guard at the postern door to the Wolf's Den didn't so much as blink at their approach. He just slid back the door and pushed it open for them to walk through. No questions asked. Wynafryd flipped him a groat for his trouble anyway.

The alley brought them out into a Fishfoot Yard bustling with a normal mid-day's business. Sailors and local shoremen and carts teeming with crated goods or boxed fish offloaded from the ships tied up at the piers of the inner and outer harbor were coming and going through the Seal Gate; the guards on duty only barely bothering to check whether the customs' import stamp was affixed to what passed by their lazy eyes.

Woman pulled buckets from the water in the fountain that lay beneath the twenty foot merman statue – old Fishfoot himself – that gave the square its name. Children ran about playing tag or stickball or whatever other game caught their fancy. Buskers played broken down flutes or lyres or drums in hopes of a halfpenny being thrown into their caps; whilst beggars just sat silently at the corners where streets emptied into the Yard from the seven points of the star shape that White Harbor was laid out in. A tumbler and a man on stilts strode and hopped in front of the Mummer's Palace to entice each passerby to spend a penny to come in for the show; and pay more for drink and food and companionship.

The air and the breeze smelled of salt and seaweed and smoke. The sky was blue and sunny and warm on the pleasant Summer day that begged for exploring. They barely noted their home, the White Castle, looming above them on top of the hill at the backend of the little city.

The trio's first stop was by a cockle stand where they whet their appetite on a half dozen juicy oysters. They followed that up by stopping by a crusty looking tar who tended a charcoal brazier on which battered squid sizzled and fried. This left them thirsty, for which a girl with a pair of tethered she goats squirted a warm cup of milk for them to share.

The roar of their bellies reduced to a dull roar, the youths went stall to stall checking what wares were for sale and hopping into any shop front that caught their fancy. They gossiped and laughed and pointed out whenever they saw some dullard make a fool of himself by word or by deed. Wynafryd and Wylla, despite being girls, were Jon's best friends in all of Westeros. The sisters oft nagged and teased each other relentlessly; Wynafyrd the smarter of the two and three years older, while Wylla was fearless in any situation. But when they were with Jon, who's name day sat smack in the middle of the pair's own, the mean spirited teasing died away and all the three ever had was fun; even when doing tedious lessons together.

Jon felt a cautioning hand on his elbow and heard a "shhhh" whispered in his ear.

"What?" he mumbled, stumbling to a halt.

"Theomore," Wynafyrd hissed.

He glanced about, and there coming off the last step of the Castle Stair was the maester. Golden curly hairs that bespoke of his Lannister ancestry, rosy plump cheeks, thick lips, and beady little eyes ... searching this way and that for … them?

"Worse," he answered in a hush, "He's got Jenkyns and Bohrs with him." The pair of Great Keep guards were marching dutifully behind the fat maester. That could only mean one thing.

"Duck in here," Wylla murmured, stepping backwards into the shop they were in front of.

Jon and Wynafyrd hurriedly followed.

"Welcome dearies. Looking for a change of look to those dreary locks of yours. Oh, a boy with the two lasses. My my, and well to do ones," the matronly voice declared, moving from standard greeting to amusement. "You _ladies_ wouldn't be out on the sly without your nanny's permission so you might kiss your sweetling without mean old pappa knowing of it, would you be?"

That accusation set them to tittering. Perhaps a little nervously. It wasn't as if the thought had _never_ crossed Jon's mind. He might do that and more if … if … He wondered whether Lord Wyman had ever said anything about _him_ to either Wylla or Wynafyrd. Lady Leona had not been pregnant once in his six years in White Harbor and Ser Wendel, near two score years old, was still unmarried. He suddently realized this was a serious question.

The apparent owner of the establishment smiled amiably back at them, unoffended by their seemingly amused display at her expense; and, when the mirth petered out, she addressed Wynafyrd. "Your hair is pretty enough, dearie. My girls could braid it special for you if you wanted a different look for the non."

Clearly the place was a barber shop of sorts. Wynafyrd looked pleased at the compliment.

"And you, young one," she called Wylla. "Do you wash that mat of hair once a Summer? A frightful mess."

"I like it," the younger sister declared proudly.

"I'd wash it for you, for free. It would be a sin to allow you to leave looking like that."

"Could you dye our hair?" Wynafyrd blurted out.

"Of a certain."

"What?" Jon and Wylla echoed each other in surprise.

Wynafyrd's eyes jerked towards the shop entrance.

"Yes. I want mine dyed too," Jon announced quickly. A disguise would aid them.

"What? Ohhh?" stumbled out of Wylla's mouth as she caught on. "Yes, dye mine too please."

"Oh, could it be something that would wash out easily later?" Jon queried, for he started squire duty with Ser Marlon in the morn. Not the best time to

"Yes. It might be done, young man. You dearies are a delightful mystery, I must say."

Wynafyrd set her small coin purse to jingling. "Quiet mysteries, ma'am."

A throaty, agreeable laugh answered that demand. Then, "So what colors might you wish to turn your brown hair to young ladies."

"Green," Wylla practically shouted and then trailed off saying, "I've always been partial to our House …"

Wynafyrd laughed. "Then I shall take blue. Father and Grandfather shall have such a fright seeing us."

"Then I shall dye mine …"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, dearie, if you truly wish to wash it out tonight, I have only one color that will suffice. Come, girls!" the shop keep commanded, apparently not addressing Wylla or Wynafyrd. "We have customers with silver, much silver," she laughed.

* * *

Each of them had been led off to a separate alcove to be worked over. The woman doing his hair was young and pretty. Jon, seated and tilted backward, enjoyed the sight of her shirt pushed pleasingly out by her full bosom as she bent over his head to wet and comb and dye his curly hair.

The curls, which he fought daily to tame when he dressed, must have taken longer for his barberess to manage than those overseeing Wynafyrd and Wylla; for the sisters were already waiting for him when he slipped out of the alcove.

All three burst into laughter. Wylla's hair looked like seaweed. And Wynafyrd could pass for a Tyroshi sailor.

"What color is mine?" he begged.

"What? You don't know?" This set the girls to laughing all the harder.

"She wouldn't tell me," he complained. As far as he could tell, for his curly hair was shorn tight enough to not interfere with wearing a helm on the training yard, it was a light color of some sort.

"Its white."

"No, its silver."

"Which is it?"

"Silver blond, young man," the matron declared firmly, well pleased with herself.

Jon's mouth dropped in shock. " _Fuck_ ," he thought. " _I'm a godsdamned Targaryen!_ "

"Where too next?" Wynafyrd asked.

"My barberess said there's a new witch in the harbor front. Seems grrrr … Lord Manderly declared her heathen and not permitted entrance inside the city. She tells fortunes."

"Well I need to know whether this dye will wash out, lets go," he agreed. He really didn't want Ser Marlon kicking his arse raw on the morrow for this … jape.

Walking confidently in their disguises, they passed straight through Fishfoot Yard; moving undetected within a score of feet of Maester Theomore. The guards at the Seal Gate gave them nary a glance. Twice they stopped for directions, and eventually made it to the modest dwelling; surprisingly one of the many stuck on the exterior wall of the Wolf's Den like barnacles to a ship's hull.

Beside the door a strange symbol and a few words in some foreign tongue were etched into the wood. Undaunted, they stepped through a creaky door to have warmth hit their faces. That and a brightness that made each squint their eyes, so that they might see more of what awaited them within.

The room lay inundated in light and shadows cast by a plethora of lit candles made from seemingly every imaginable hue of wax, dozens of different sized iron bowls – each full of burning whale oil – set out on tables or resting on metal tripods, and a large stone hearth within which blazed a veritable bonfire.

Pupils adjusted to mere slits against the intense glare, Jon curiously looked further about the place. It certainly did not give off the aura of a dank, eerie abode that he would have expected of a witch. A heaping mound of driftwood sat in danger of tipping over one corner. A few chairs and benches were scattered about; the largest with its back to them, facing the hearth. Some ratty rugs hung from the walls. There were no rushes on the hard packed and plainly well swept earthen floor.

Of a bed or kitchen gear or any other ordinary pieces of furniture to evoke a place where someone lived, no matter how poor their circumstances, there was no sign except for a single, strongly constructed, cleverly crafted chest. Set upon it where a score of jars holding what appeared to be powders of varying colors. Of rare animal carcass parts or exotic plants or misting potions or fiendish contraptions again anticipated as completing a witch's possessions, there was no sign.

"It's a wonder this hovel hasn't burned down," Wylla said.

Wynafyrd nodded her now bluish head in agreement, and added scornfully, "You'd think the witch would be here already, knowing we come to have our fortunes …"

A woosh and explosion of light and color erupted from what seemed every flame in the room.

And then a figure suddenly stood in front of them. A woman. A beautiful woman all in red.

"Welcome, Jon Snow. I am the Lady Melisandre," the stunning apparition said with an exotic voice full of honey and promise that reached deep into his soul.

Her hair was as vibrant a color as any of their dyed heads; a deep, luxurious red that unlike their locks looked natural. Her clothes, where they touched her rosy skin, were equally red and fit every seductive curve on her luscious body like a glove.

Wylla spoke up, as Jon found himself struck mute in the lady's magnificent presence, not at all disturbed that the witch already knew his name. "Jon came to hear his fortune."

"What would the Azor Ahai reborn wish to discover?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Varys POV**

 **Red Keep, 297**

His still keen eyes spied through the gloom the hand gestures of the little bird nestled far up the cliff-face of the waterside of Aegon's Hill that indicated no other boats were following the tiny river runner rowing to the tiny snippet of sand fronting the equally diminutive cove. With a quick glance to left and right, being sure not to look down at the signal lantern and thus damage his night vision, he saw the other two diminutive soldiers he had brought with him still diligently watching the rocky approaches along the coast. A spider could never be too careful.

His equally adept ears heard no hint of warning from the web of mutes guarding the tunnels behind him. Satisfied, he focused again on the approaching boat, the only possible imminent source of treachery. This visit had been scheduled on the shortest of notices and was thus highly unusual. Accordingly, he was prepared to flee or, if necessary, use the short sword and dirk strapped to the belt beneath his leather half cape and around the waist of his mail and boiled leather armor.

He masked his pique at the minor disruption to his activities, but did not relax his vigilance, as the moonlight at last revealed two non-descript oarsmen transporting his oldest, best, and only friend; now tremendously obese.

Sand crunched under the prow. The rowers leapt out into the knee high water to steady the boat on the assumption that Illyrio's enormous arse could then safely clamber over the gunnel without causing him to flounder and beach like a whale.

Gone was the vigorous sellsword with the impressive physique that he remembered first meeting and allying with thirty five years previous. The body may have betrayed Illyrio, but his mind was still nimble. And the loyalty unquestioned … Varys hoped. There were precious few things left to him that came as a surprise or a disappointment. That would be both.

"Here's the first half," the familiar Pentos accented voice carried in the darkness. "And be sure to return for me at this time on the morrow for the rest of your coin, you usurous sea dogs," Illyrio hectored the salty pair. Silver evidently exchanged, the men who ran the dilapidated water carriage turned to get back in the scow.

"Now," Varys whispered. And as the claw of the little bird standing slightly behind him, deeper in the shadows, feathered the trigger of the crossbow, his old friend turned with surprising speed for one his size and age to drive a dagger into the back of the nearer boatsman; neatly tipping the soon to be corpse into the craft.

The fired bolt took the other unsuspecting soul twixt chest and head, dropping the unlucky sailor into the salty brink to gasp out his last breaths through a newly rent air hole in his throat.

"Neatly done, old friend" his fellow conspirator congratulated him too loudly and immediately started to waddle up the short beach's steep incline to the rocks in which Varys was securely situated; not bothering to go to the effort of retrieving either his dagger or the passed coins.

And why should he? What else were little birds good for? The pair at either side of the cove rushed down to the waters' edge to join the one who had fired the crossbow. With some effort, the body of the sailor felled by the bolt was lifted into the craft. And with greater effort, they were after all physically still just children, the river boat was pushed back into mouth of the Blackwater Rush and the oars once again commanded, but by much tinier hands than before. Soon enough crabs and other bottom feeding creatures would discover an unexpected feast.

Illyrio's ample belly jiggled as he shuffled forward through the sand. The dim moonlight reflected off the dyed yellow hair of his head and forked beard; as well as off the gems encrusting the rings stuffed, sometimes more than just one at a time, on fingers grown fat. The smell of his perfume soon started to cut through the scent of sea on the evening breeze. His friend had always had a certain interminable vanity about him that refused to bow to the inevitable weight of age.

Varys waited until Illyrio came closer; with his guards away, there was no sense speaking loud enough if others lurking about by happenstance this night might hear them and become curious. "You play a dangerous game coming here, old friend. What of your charges?"

"Happy to no longer be begging. Happy to live in a palace. Clad in elegant clothing. Dined with only the finest foods and wines. Attended by humble servants who treat them with the royal respect they believe they deserve. Or at least, Viserys demands," the magister said with evident amusement about the prince who wished to be king; a light horse at best on the Cyvasse board.

"And for that news, you must visit me?" Varys asked, at last arching a darkened eyebrow that he knew his compatriot could now espy through the shadows in which he lurked.

"Perhaps I merely wished to be entertained again by the sight, and smell, of you in your gaoler's garb?" Illyrio squinted closely at him. "That grey mop. Have you grown out your hair?" he asked with amazement it.

Varys smiled, it was true. A year shy of fifty name days, the natural grey was its own disguise. Having been cut before puberty fully set in, the beard would always need to be fake. "For this," and his hands went up and down his sweat and grime stained disguise, "you took your fat carcass away from the pleasures of Pentos for two weeks of wave tossed journey? I am gratified."

"You should be. And for this too, old friend," Illyrio said with some emotion, raising his bejeweled hands from his sides. One pudgy block of flesh tugged at a sausage on the other … and in a second revealed a small circle of metal: a dark and bloody red ring that shimmered menacingly. "The last of _that_ House is now dead, my friend. You are avenged."

The eunuch grasped the band, feeling the jagged wings of the stallion and the flame coming out of its muzzle digging into the hardened calluses of his hand. "Bittersteel," he whispered with sweet hatred taking him back.

* * *

" _Nooooo," the young boy screamed, watching the shiny, blood stained hand and a half longsword slip past Baelor's parry and slice open his neck. All the guards where dead too. Leaving only he and his little sister and their nanny left alive by the brigands invading the cottage that was his home. The ten year old ran madly, a simple cutting knife in hand, at the killer of his brother; only to have the flat of a blade knock him into darkness._

* * *

"Does Emorelle know," he asked in a hushed breath; more moved than at any time in the fourteen years since the birth of Aegon and the fall of Aerys.

"Oh, I've sent a message, of course. Who knows when she might receive it. They could be anywhere from Ghoyan Drohe to Selhorys on the Rhoyne. Not that she ever cared about the vendetta as much as you."

He nodded in understanding and lifted the lantern off the ground. "Come," he commanded. "The death of the last heirs to Aegor Rivers and Calla Blackfyre deserves a toast." He turned and headed back into the cliff face deeply satisfied, though no singer would ever know to craft a song about his revenge like had been done for Tywin Lannister and his Reynes. "And stop gloating, old friend," he scolded lightly without bothering to look at Illyrio's face.

"And you were concerned why I had come, weren't you? Admit it, old friend," the sellsword turned respectable Magister of Pentos chided in a well pleased voice.

"I admit nothing and everything," declared the eunuch as the dark of the tunnel, deeper than the night, swallowed them.

* * *

 _A ghost of awareness at last penetrated his throbbing brain, nagging him to consciousness. "Where's …" he began to shriek as the frightening memories flooded him in a panic._

 _A hand clamped down hard over his lips, squelching the cry. Then another hand punched or slapped him even harder on the side of his aching head; shooting stars into what little he could glimpse in the darkness encompassing him. Finally, something both hard and soft was shoved into his mouth, gagging him._

" _Don't worry, cousin Arys. You might survive this night. A son bearing royal blood, even mixed with the taint of a common witch, has many uses," that evil voice whispered with malicious pleasure in his ear. "As does a daughter."_

' _Emorelle!' he thought in horror at the barb aimed at his sister and sought to renew his struggle. In vain. The slight built child recently turned just eleven name days discovered his arms and legs bound tight; holding him spread eagle, and naked on some coarse, hard surface. His resistance quickly petered out to the low, sadistic chuckles of his captor._

 _He soon realized he was no longer in the cottage. The air in the murky room was heavy and fetid; an eerie force, at the bare edges of his perception, seemed to quiver some way above and around him. "Ggidjwerackmi?" the boy mumbled questioningly._

" _Beneath the Great Hall, where your grandfather is trying to use fire and Targaryen blood to hatch dragon eggs."_

 _That was what mamma and papa and tiny grandmamma had feared; and why he and his siblings had been sent away to the safety of their home deep in the hunting grounds of castle._

" _Daeron was born the year the last dragon died. His weak line must not be the ones to regain them." Then the unseen, evil man snickered, "Soon cousin Aegon will lament, in his last remaining moments, that Targaryen flesh and blood has other uses too."_

* * *

The light cast by the lantern revealed the two talking men to be walking down a tunnel carved out of bare earth buttressed by thick, roughhewn, aging timbers. Occasionally they passed the entrances of much narrower side passages, fit only for the runoff of water or sewage and little birds.

"Any nibbles yet from one of the barbarian hordes for our princess?" Varys asked.

"My riders have barely been gone two months. Essos is vast, my friend. We'll be lucky if they are all still alive and have passed the Qhoyne by now. The edge of the Dothraki Sea would still be weeks away. Patience," Illyrio cautioned.

"An easy lesson for you sitting in your palace to preach, my friend."

"Hazardous duty, I assure you," he answered with a laugh. "When the time comes and some khal rides across the Rhoyne to come inspect our Dragon Princess, as sweet a peach as we could have e'er hoped my friend, then I will have the pleasure of bargaining gifts with that barbarian for the marriage. T'will be naught to convince them to cross the poison water in exchange. A mere trifle," the fat man proclaimed in an irony heavy voice.

"And with the Beggar King thousands of miles from the Free Cities, following after the khalasar of this "sweet" Daenerys' husband, Prince Doran will be much more inclined when the moment arrives for a match with our Aegon."

"Poor Viserys may not even survive. A rash young man. I doubt he will fare well with the Dothraki. Has Doran offered any new false betrothals to his heir since Estermont?" Illyrio chuckled.

"Beesbury."

"I fear I know not that House name. From the Reach?" he guessed.

"And why should you, my friend? All that matters is he is yet another grey beard grown too limp to suit the likes of energetic, unseeing, Arianne Martell. Now enough questions. Time to save your breath my fat friend, we've stairs to climb."

Hard packed earth had long since turned to dress stone on their underground journey, and more than a hundred stairs faced Illyrio's girth.

* * *

 _A flame was at last lit, revealing a brazier, a high arched ceiling, and the outline of the dark figure who had called him cousin. After setting the fire, the tall man crouched over a nearby table on which something long and metallic shown; soon he began making elaborate gestures and chanting words in a whisper that Arys could not hear._

 _Done with whatever magic his captor had cast, and young Arys knew it to be magic for he had once watched mamma and grandmamma cast a glamour, the villain finally turned to face him. His eyes were a hateful purple, confirming his own Targaryen blood, beneath black, not silver blonde hair. The cruelest feature about him was the long, hooked blade of a nose down which the eyes peered at him._

" _Some of the dragon beats within you cousin, I'll grant you that. The better for what is to come. But the rite is delicate," the sorcerer explained, as he tugged the gag aside and pulled a vial out of a pocket._

 _The potion burned as it trickled down the boy's throat. Seeing the gag neglected to be put back in place and his captor returned to the table, he went to shout._

 _Nothing came out of his mouth. He was powerless to speak. Angered, the boy reflexively went to struggle again against the restraints shackling him. He could not move either, though his bare arse could still feel the surface of the wide barrelhead upon which he lay draped, as well as fibers from the rope poking his naked skin._

 _The sorcerer stood over him again, an elegant, rune carved Valyrian steel made hand and a half sword in his grasp. The blade was instantly recognizable. Blackfyre! But surely Aegor Rivers was dead; an old man turned to dust in Essos. And the sole remaining Blackfyre heir, Maelys, was a giant with two heads … not this harsh beaked, steely eyed mage meddling with dark arts._

 _Words began chanting out of his "cousin's mouth. They sounded like Old Valyrian, but not any words that young Arys had ever learned the few times he had been allowed to sit in on Aerys and Rhaella's lessons with Grand Maester Pycelle. Though different than the language that mamma and little grandmamma spoke, he could sense the power in them._

 _PAIN! EXCRUCIATING PAIN!_

 _Involuntarily tears wept out of his eyes. The madman had wielded Blackfyre like a flaying knife and sliced him root and stem._

 _The boy watched as his bloody man parts were tossed on to the brazier. The flames turned from orange and red to deep blue._

 _The ceiling seemed to warp and turn transparent to somehow show the castle's Great Hall. As if from a great distance, Arys saw mamma Jenny and pappa Duncan and grandfather Aegon and Ser Duncan the Tall and Uncle Jaeherys, and many, many others he recognized from Summerhall, and a few he did not. They were all gathered around a pit built out of thick rocks within which green wildfire roiled and surged about several round objects._

 _Then a demonic sounding voice, that chilled the marrow in the boy's frightened bones, called out to the sorcerer in the same Valyrian from out of the void. Arys felt nauseous and feint._

 _A call and response of chants passed quickly._

 _Fire. Fire erupted everywhere._

 _And Arys mind slipped back into darkness._

* * *

The conspirators were now within the Red Keep proper, though still underground. The time was late enough that the chance of running into a servant in this mostly unused subterranean set of storage space under the Kitchen Keep and the Great Wall was slim, but not non-existent.

"Though our young Griff is a mite too young, and not ready yet as both Connington and _Septa_ Lemore write me, how close is Westeros to being ready for the three headed dragon banner to be raised?" Illyrio queried.

"A few more years, perhaps. Summer must end sometime. Let the pain of Winter set in. Hopefully the North and the Vale remain in discord thanks to the regencies over their young Wardens; though Robb Stark's will end later this year. Pray that he keeps listening to his Fish of a Mother."

"And the baby Falcon?"

"Chaos, my friend. The proud Vale Lords resent even more their widowed Fish marrying her Steward. Though I must say, this Baelish seems an able fellow, playing Royce against Waynwood against Belmore when he apparently can't outright buy a lord. This lordling may prove most useful to us later on."

"And no sign of Lord Fish healing the breach with his daughters?"

"No. As proud as a Vale Lord, that one; and growing old and ill I am told. And when the inevitable comes, the heir is a piffle."

"Which is not a word to describe Tywin Lannister."

"Admittedly, no. But the Lion has agreeably bitten off more than he can chew in taking the Kraken's seat for his despised dwarf. Two boys Tyrion has already sired with his Greyjoy bride; and spent countless gold and the lives of hundreds of red cloaks from the Rock in keeping Balon's infant "heirs" secure on the Seastone Chair."

As the pair walked past the door in the hall to the storage room within which the bones of Balerion the Black Dread and many of his kin sat collecting dust for just a few more years, Varys calculated that the Seven Kingdoms were encouraging for the realm already in a state of moderate turmoil.

Thankfully, for their plans, though Stannis Baratheon did have a rocky legitimacy of sorts as well as base competency in governing, the man lacked the charm of his dead brother to make men loyal. In fact, quite the opposite, lords great and small despised him as a man. The question was whether it would be better to their enterprise to have him as King try to rally an alliance together or another?

* * *

 _Arys, in pain and ill from his neutering, remembered little of the hurried, chaotic journey made by the sorcerer and his band of evil men from burning Summerhall to the Stormlands' coast. He had fleeting glimpses of Emorelle along the way, her eyes scared and searching for their parents. The young boy too wondered whether they were alive or dead like poor Baelor._

 _A cog waited for them in Shipbreaker Bay._

 _As they sailed across the Narrow Sea, the madman at last took time to seriously look after his festering wound. The boy quickly found himself ensconced in the man's quarters. With how hard the sorcerer then strove to heal him, it was apparent that the mage had been serious about having future use for someone, even a eunuch, with veins full of a king's blood. That worried Arys deeply._

 _So too did the tidbits he discovered about the man. Not Bittersteel himself, but Aenys, his eldest child from his Blackfyre wife. Aegor Rivers, having been stymied countless times by the eldritch Bloodraven, had, upon discovering an affinity for magic within his son, set him on the path to learning dark arts: weathering witching, blood magic, summoning. Though Aenys had learned his hate of Targaryens from Bittersteel and Calla himself._

 _And Arys was not the only other occupant to share quarters with Aenys. Along with himself and Emorelle, three dragon eggs had also somehow been stolen in the chaos of the fiery destruction of Summerhall. They sat in a large strong box that Aenys would frequently open in order to stare at the beautiful treasure; each scaly and shiny and a different color: deep green, pale cream, and black as Aenys Bittersteel's heart._

 _At the mouth to Myr's harbor, with Aenys top side on the cog, the young boy ceased feigning that his ills were worse than they were. His strength had mostly returned, but not enough to either rescue his sister, if he even knew how, or to break open the strong box and take a valuable egg with him. So he slipped through a narrow porthole and splashed into the warm water; letting the tide and the buoyant sea take him to shore on the edge of the Free City._

* * *

Coming in from one of the several passages ways that met here, Varys unerringly stepped over to the place in the wall where the trigger for the mechanism hid. He pushed against the unassuming cobble, no different than the rest which made up the walls of the hexagonal shaped room with a thick supporting column plumb in the middle of it. Immediately, a deep rumbling gave evidence of the secret doorway opening before the central rocky column could lift up enough to reveal the great black well beneath; huge stones set as steps built into the curving walls, circling down and down - as the realm must before it could be saved.

"What of the King? Do you think he will seek another betrothal? It's been what? A year since the last?" Illyrio finally asked, bringing the conversation back to the likely keystone of the fall of House Baratheon-Targaryen and Aegon's rise.

"Poor, poor Stannis," Varys clucked sympathetically. "Whether he wishes it or not, an unmarried King draws eligible daughters like flies to shit. More, I fear, despite Lords Paxter and Mace's best intended plans for a new attempt by the Reach, the King shall remain a widower. Alas, if he was any other man, I would think Stannis terribly lonely; except he has the memory of perfect Shyra to comfort him."

This caused Illyrio to laugh. "Ahh, so Desmera is your preferred choice. Will the poor dear die from accident or illness like the Florent and Estermont chits. Or shall she be caught in a compromising position like the Hightower slut?" Another, short, brutal laugh, "Did you know she's now a concubine to Tregar Ormollen in Lys?"

"That is amusing. But you give me far too much credit to foresee the future so closely, old friend. It will depend on which ball is rising and which falling and where the wind blows when the time is ripe. Regardless, as the King's grudges are long lived creatures, the break I will arrange with his Master of Ships shall be the final straw in the tenuous relations between the Iron Throne and the Reach."

"You are more than a juggler, old friend. You are a true sorcerer," Illyrio declared.

"Come," the spider said, gesturing down the steps; asking the fat, juicy magistrate to come into the center of his web.

* * *

 _Four years later, a down on his luck, lithe, tall bravo by happenstance encountered and rescued a rising thief in the warrens of Myr's slums. To survive those who hunted him, young Arys had shaved his head, lost all trace of his Westerosi accent, changed his name, first begged, then sold those parts of his body that still interested the perversions of the worst debauchers, and finally learned to steal._

 _A partnership was quickly formed that day. With Illyrio's strong sword arm and fast dagger work at his back, the teenaged eunuch called Varys no longer spent much time dodging the gangs that claimed each neighborhood. As success followed success and word of a clever spider spread through the city for those seeking such services, he discovered that often the contents of a man's letters are more valuable than the contents of his purse. Better, he found he could trust his partner; who over the next two years slowly came to hear all of Varys' tale, as well as his desires._

 _Together the two grew wealthy and moved beyond just Myr._

 _Eight years after the tragedy at Summerhall, the first of Aenys Bittersteel's kin died under mysterious circumstances. Twelve years after, pregnant, brown haired and brown eyed Emorelle, rescued from a female descended branch of the Blackfyres whom Aenys had sold her to, gave birth to a silver haired, purple eyed daughter in the remote Sept along the Boneway in northern Dorne that her brother had safeguarded her to. And nineteen years after, Aenys' dark arts ultimately proved no match for the canny, stealthy vengeance of the Spider._

 _Afterward, visiting Braavos, Emorelle's haven at the time, Varys laid eyes for the first time on the second of his sister's children. A by blow from a month long torrid affair with a handsome, distinguished water dancer. Another silver haired, purple eyed daughter. Upon spying her, the kernel of a grand plan sprouted its first root in his fertile mind. Oh, certainly cold revenge would still be extracted on every last branch and twig of the Bittersteel tree. But the eunuch discovered a newfound desire to see whether the Spider could create as readily as he destroy._

* * *

"You live in shit and filth, old friend," Illyrio proclaimed, looking at the modest accommodations granted the undergaoler in charge of the third level dungeons of the Red Keep.

"No worse than our first months together," Varys protested.

"Sadly true," the obese magister and former swordsman agreed with a sigh.

"Wine?"

Illyrio looked at him suspiciously.

"I do permit myself a pleasure or two from time to time."

"And chance the discovery that Rugen may not be the unassuming, vile swine he appears? That is hardly you, dear Varys."

"I chance having you here."

"True. Very well, give me some of this sweet nectar of yours."

The spider pressed on a particular cobble and a hidey hole opened. He pulled out a fine bottle.

His fat friend whistled appreciatively. "At least you risk your identity for Arbor gold. One of the better vintages, I hope."

"Two hundred seventy one."

"A bitter vintage, haha, but still sweet."

Varys poured for Illyrio and then for himself.

"To Aegon," he offered in toast.

"To Aegon," the eunuch agreed.

They drank deep, both emptying their cups.

Illyrio shook his encouragingly and Varys refilled it.

The man drank again.

Then a sigh.

"One life's mission complete. Another to come."

Another sigh.

"Many will suspect him an imposter."

"Of course," Varys agreed; thankfully Emorelle had bred true again with Targaryen features and most conveniently a boy. "Connington has served well. And so long as enough lords and knights and smallfolks see the hope and dignity and modesty in Aegon, that is all that will matter in the end. I will see that it does."

"And it matters not to you that no one will ever know that Aegon is your nephew; and not Rhaegar's son?"

They had sown and reaped this ground a time or thrice before. "Not no one. You will know. My sister knows," he answered plainly.

"Bah, a Septa who none could ever believe is helping to raise her own son to become a King," Illyrio protested.

Varys just smiled serenely back at his conspirator. The man had always been slightly prone to boast and exaggerate. The Spider took vast satisfaction in the simple fact that no one would ever know that both Targaryen loyalists and the Blackfyre loving Golden Company alike would be raising a cuckoo to the Iron Throne. "All the sweeter, old friend. All the sweeter."


	6. Chapter 6

**Cersei Crakehall POV (II)**

 **Boar's Tusk, 298**

Cersei strode out of the Great Keep by the side of her large and loud husband. The Strongbore was clad in riding clothes and a boiled leather cuirass; all in traditional Crakehall brown, black, and white colors, ever a horrible combination for her to try to match Lannister crimson and gold with. So, as she frequently did, Cersei wore a simple velvet gown of some shade of dreary tan accented by only a few pieces of bright jewelry.

Trailing close behind, in reasonably dignified fashion, came her three daughters. The littlest carried by the Septa who acted more as nanny than as a teacher of young ladies. Next followed Aunt Genna and the last two of her brood of weasels; Tion, having become Lord Oaf's squire three years ago, also wore riding clothes. Bringing up the rear were her Lannister Maester, Lannett Steward, and six of the ten knights pledged directly to her castle; each sporting a brindled boar patch on their travel clothes and armor.

All unessential work had been temporarily suspended that morning to allow the smallfolk to gather in the inner bailey to cheer Lord Oaf's noble departure. The Strongbore would be gone a year or more; and he would not be going alone. A hundred mounted men-at-arms, a score of servants and craftsmen, and the nags carrying the supplies to see them all to Lannisport were already drawn up and waiting in the central square of wattle and daub hutted Bristle Croft past the inner stone curtain wall, the external bailey, and the outer wooden palisade.

Forty of the armored and armed escort came from her own garrison. The various lordlings and sers with holdfasts pledged as banners to House Crakehall of Boar's Tusk provided the remaining sixty. As far as Cersei was concerned, Lyle and the six accompanying knights were simply better trained and better armed guards for the precious gem being transported in their midst.

The lined up lowborn castle staff appropriately bowed and curtseyed as the procession passed through them towards where pages and stable hands held the reins of the horses waiting for those to leave.

"Here, Joanna, let me help you mount, pumpkin," her husband unceremoniously announced upon their approaching the beasts; not showing a whit of consideration for Cersei's feelings in doing so.

"Great Oaf," she snarled, though only loud enough for him to hear.

"What?" the Strongbore brayed loudly in confusion, as he ever did at her chastisements.

Cersei ignored him and in a far kinder voice addressed her eldest child. "Give mother a hug, sweetling."

"We bloody well did that already," her husband grumbled impatiently, but this time in a quieter voice as her brown haired daughter flew into her arms for one last goodbye.

This caused Jeyne to rush over too, tears again forming at the edges of the six year olds green, Lannister eyes and starting to roll down long Lannister colored eye lashes. Little Genna promptly struggled out of Septa Thora arms and waddled over on thick, stubby three year old Crakehall legs to join the melee.

In the tight clutch, Cersei lovingly cautioned her clever, brave daughter, "Behalf yourself. Remember your lessons. Treat Lady Dorna respectfully." Words that made her want to vomit; being at the mercy of that chicken legged and breasted and brained Swyft.

"I will, mother."

"Grandfather Tywin is always watching and judging," she continued. " _He will expect great things from you,_ " Cersei said silently; she had known he would from the moment she named her first born after her mother. "Also, listen closely to 'Aunt' Shiera and cousin Lanna. They will teach you as best they can so that you succeed in Casterly Rock. Come back to us a great lady."

"Yes, mother. I shall. I promise," Joanna said with more confidence than by rights a child of only seven name days should; a Lannister.

"Oh, we will miss you so, Joanna," Jeyne cried softly, old enough to know not to display her despondence openly in front of the servants.

"Doan go Jojo," Genna started bawling again, clinging clumps of mucus oozing out of her straight Lannister nose protruding from a pudgy Crakehall face. Cersei had chosen wisely in putting a simple smock on her daughter that morning. "Stay wid me, puuze? Make Jojo stay, mamma."

The Strongbore decided to step in and smoothly lifted Genna into his massive arms. "Your Grandfather is Lord of all the Westerlands little one. It would be very, very naughty if we failed in our duty to him," he cajoled in a gentle tone that only left her wailing all the more; smothering her snot ravaged face into the now slightly less brown leather he wore across his strapping chest.

"Grandfather will certainly let me return for visits, Genny," Joanna said sweetly, though her brown Crakehall eyes peered over the top of Jeyne's blonde curls to look knowingly into Cersei's green ones.

Cersei doubted that very much and knew by her look that Joanna did too. Five years of lady-in-waiting training to Cersei's dowager goodaunt was a painfully long time for her daughter to be gone from her. But that had been Tywin's price and Cersei had willingly paid it, for fifteen year old Lancel was now heir to Casterly Rock.

"Grandfather never visits us or lets us visit Casterly Rock. Why would he let you go?" Jeyne petulantly complained to her sister.

This caused Lord Oaf to snort in sarcastic amusement. He was not forbidden from coming and going whenever he pleased.

"Then as his first grandchild, I shall charm Grandfather so greatly that his love must grant my wish to see you all within the year. I promise," Joanna said reasonably of an exceptionally difficult task. None of Cersei's daughters looked terribly much like her, taking more after their boarish father; and of the three, Joanna looked the least Lannister – brown eyes, brown hair, a Crakehall face, and the suggestion of a Crakehall body to grow into. Yet her mind and soul was that of a lioness, just like her mother.

"I have every faith in you, Joanna," Cersei declared to her eldest. She must.

This earned her a loving smile in return.

"My knights and squire are already mounted," the Strongbore observed unhappily; his impatience palpable.

" _And you are their Lord, let them wait on your pleasure, Oaf_ ," Cersei chastised him in her mind. While her mouth said, "Say goodbye to your father, girls."

Jeyne reluctantly let go off Joanna and then rushed over the five steps to wrap herself around her father's thick, muscular leg. Genna only buried her face deeper into his shoulder, somehow finding air to breath. His absence, barring injury or accident, would be shorter, but no less felt by his children.

Her husband chuckled in delight at their evident affection. Cersei could only admit that Lyle did treat them well when he was not playing at the rambunctious knight or the prickly Lord of Boar's Tusk. With one massive hand he lovingly tousled Jeyne's Lannister hair and gently stroked Genna's damp Crakehall cheek. Joanna moved closer as well, though her goodbye to him would not be for weeks.

Then his piggy brown eyes stared expectantly, hopefully, but no longer with what she now knew had been love, into her green ones.

Cersei stifled a sigh. She had said all the goodbyes to him she desired to, and more, in the night. She obligingly stepped forward and immediately his free long arm swooped around her to pull her even closer.

"Tell me again, my wife. I can't seem to remember your words," the Strongbore challenged her with impudent amusement, squeezing her further.

She bit her lip, refusing. He had gloated so at his perceived victory. Then, involuntarily once again, she blurted with a strange mixture of frustration and … and … realization, "Stay safe, you great oaf."

"Mamma!" "Mother!" "Mamma!" her daughters all cried out in disapproving shock.

"Bwahahahaha!" the Strongbore roared, tilting his head back in delight at her shame and clutching her all the tighter; the whole group of them shaking as his powerful torso quivered in humor.

The lioness over the many long years had said far, far worse, and with an anger unrivaled except for two, at their father. However, with difficulty, she had forced herself to follow Shiera's kind advice, " _Lyle loves your children, do not poison them by letting them see your hate of him._ "

Despite living together so long in tight, meager quarters as the Great Keep slowly rose into something that could actually be lived in, that had been the only time her cousin's wife had commented on the state of her marriage. When the couple left Boar's Tusk, Tywin had gained a fine castellan in Damion and Cersei had lost her only friend. At least sweet Joanna would find a loving guide in Shiera to help her navigate the treacherous ways of Casterly Rock.

Lord Oaf's mirth drained off as his hand snaked all the way around her waist to rest on Cersei's lightly bulging belly. "And you keep my piglet safe as well," he advised her.

This caused her to snort, "Piglet? See why I call your father a 'great oaf' or worse, children?" she said with an almost pleasant, teasing exaggeration of what she possibly felt for their father.

This gained her small giggles in response.

Lyle played along with her diversion by asking a frequent favorite question of his, "And what shall we call a son of mine?"

"Joffrey," they chanted together.

"Noooo, Roland. Not Joffrey," Lyle said with mock annoyance. "And a daughter? Lynnore, right?"

"Myrcella," the three laughed, bringing a smile to Cersei's face at their game.

"Does no one listen to me?" he sham protested. Surprisingly, he had not once contested any of the names she gave their children; simply expressing his preference pre-birth for sons.

All three daughters vigorously shook their heads "no" in answer to him. While the Lioness might only partially rule the Boar's Tusk, her cubs ruled over the Strongboar.

"Hhhhmmmn, maybe I will just stay on Pyke then?" Lord Oaf japed too far.

"Nooooooo," they all immediately cried with painful worry. Genna to the verge of tears again.

"Oh very well, I couldn't stay away from my lovelies, now could I?" he replied with good nature to them, not realizing how cruel he had just been. He then gave all another quick squeeze before putting Genna down tenderly so that Cersei might take the youngest hand. "I'll bring you back presents," he promised.

"A longship," Jeyne demanded fiercely; having overheard enough to learn that the endless campaign against the secret rebels to Tyrion's misrule was fought as much on sea as on land.

"Perhaps a small one," he laughed.

Cersei started to scowl and Lyle winked at her. Still, she wouldn't put it past him to plunk down a war galley in the middle of her Great Hall in a castle in the mountains! With luck and more gold, the Great Hall might even be completed enough to host his return feast.

"Now, sadly, it is time to be off. You need help mounting that great roan, Joanna."

"No, father," their eldest said boldly as she approached the beast.

"Send a raven when … when … you know." he stuttered softly to her, not being able to meet her eyes and instead gazing at her belly.

Men! All any of them want is a son to carry on their overblown name, but they leave all the work of it to women. "Great Oaf," she mouthed at him, meaning it.

He chuckled at her silent barb. Then his back was turned and he vigorously leapt his Robert sized bulk into the saddle. Joanna climbed onto her mount with little difficulty either. Seeing she was safely up, her husband next swung his horse about in a circle so that he could check the status of the other seven riders in the inner bailey. "Tion, pull that cinch tighter," he barked at his squire. "Have you been mistreating the stable hands that they want to see you tumble arse over tits?"

"Yes, my lord!" Aunt Genna's second youngest son shouted back and promptly reached under the saddle flaps to give a hard tug to the strap of leather.

Apparently now satisfied, he bellowed, "Forward!"

The crowd of lowborn immediately started chanting "Strongboar! Strongboar! None So Fierce!" as the small cavalcade began moving towards the raised portcullis in the Gate Tower and the larger force awaiting them outside the castle grounds.

"Kill lots of iron born. Win your spurs!" she heard her thirteen year old cousin Walder shout over the din in encouragement at his older brother.

"Send Tyrion, Asha, Jaime, and Tytos our love, dear!" Aunt Genna bellowed in a voice suited for the captain of a ship in a storm.

However, with the utterance of a single name, Cersei lost all interest in the proceedings; a grimace automatically breaking over her face and her insides, her heart, clenching painfully within whenever she heard another speak it. The Imp could go to SevenHells for daring to take that name for _his_ firstborn son. Why could Tyrion not have been satisfied with first using "Tytos" to tweak their father's pride and then naming the new born in honor of Uncle Kevan? Worse, Tyrion's children did not even have the grace of being born dwarfs like their kinslaying father. "Jaime" was hers and should only ever be hers.

Cersei felt a gentle squeeze on her hand.

She looked down

"Mamma?" little Genna asked, hazel eyes looking up uncertainly at her.

"Yes, sweetingly?"

"Hug?"

"Yes, dear one," she said huskily, sweeping down to pick up the flesh of her flesh as a shield that no one might see the hint of tears in her emerald eyes.

* * *

At the clattering sound, Cersei looked up from the pile of records and drawings that she was slowly reviewing. She had been going through the tall stack and making notes, when she was not distractedly gazing out the south facing window of the family solar. Seven knew Lord Oaf seldom bothered with the minutia of ruling; probably why he had been so keen to answer her father's second round of summons for banners to avenge Uncle Kevan's death.

"I concede," Walder said glumly; the noise having been him tipping over the last of his ivory carved figurines still standing on the cyvasse board, a name day present to her a lifetime ago from young Renly. He was a man grown now; Lord of Storm's End and married to a Mertyn of Mistwood. He had had the decency to invite her, but the timing of it was too soon for her.

"You play well, young Master. Most your age are only eager for the attack and oft find they lose too many pieces assaulting a well prepared defense on the high ground. However, a well prepared defense alone will seldom win a game. A player must be prepared to counter attack. I find that a dragon held in reserve …" Maester Theomore droned on.

Walder, having lost three games in a row, made a child's unenergetic grunts in response as "proof" he was listening to his respected elder and would be teacher.

Cersei caught Aunt Genna's amused expression as she looked up at her youngest from the sewing in her lap.

Off in a corner, Jeyne and Genna pleasantly played with a mahogany dollhouse that her goodfather had gifted Joanna his last visit to Boar's Tusk. The children at least knew _that_ Grandfather by sight. They had even visited him in Crakehall; the whole family journeying there together. The only nasty blot on the experience being Tywin's refusal to let them lodge a mere solitary night in Lannisport both coming and going to Lyle's home and where Jaime had once squired.

Much of her two youngest daughters time the last week had gone into the bargaining, trading, pleading, and fighting with each other, and with Joanna, over which of them received what toy that her eldest daughter could not bring to Casterly Rock. There had been rather a lot of toys. Much to the Strongbore's annoyance, she had allowed them to win and lose their own battles. For though the three did not yet know it, life was much like their squabbles; but instead of mere baubles the rewards were of far, far greater value - sometimes the difference between living free and living caged.

"Thank you for your advice, Maester. Perhaps we can play again tonight?" Walder's bored voice insincerely suggested politely.

"As you please. Tonight then," her distant cousin agreed a tad haughtily. This not being the first suffering teenage noble he had ever dealt with.

"Mother? Cousin Cersei? May I go riding?" he next asked; much more charmingly for what he desired.

This time Aunt Genna, did not look up. "Of course, dear. But if I catch word of you following even a mile after your brother's trail, I'll thrash you worse than I ever did your father," the middle aged going on old woman responded with the same don't dare cross me tone that Cersei remembered from her childhood; when aunt stepped in to act as replacement for suddenly motherless twins.

"Thank you. I won't" Walder replied eagerly; and not waiting for Cersei to give a different answer, dashed off.

Aunt Genna merely snorted in disbelief; again, without bothering to look up from the pair of dull blue towers she was cross-stitching into the drearier grey silk surcoat for the boy. Walder himself was due at Casterly Rock in two months, to become squire to the castellan, Damion Lannister. That was what had brought Aunt Genna back to the West from the Riverlands; Tion's departure for war during her visit simply a brutal coincidence.

A quill to her mouth, Cersei absent mindedly noted that the maester she remembered as child calling simply Theo was putting away the cyvasse pieces, tiles, screen, and board into the carved weirwood box. Many of her finest quality possessions populating her apartments within the Great Keep had come from her time as Queen; and several from her status as Dowager Queen. Both astonishingly and pleasingly, Stannis had run counter to his character and not stinted his generosity to her.

And then her cousin's purposeful cough drew her gaze away from the window to which it had again wandered. "Yes?" she queried.

"My Lady, I could not help but note that you were going over the construction figures. Is there some concern or change you would care to discuss? Shall I summon Lord Loreon?"

Cersei chuckled softly to herself. Though her seventh cousin twice removed gave a dull, unlion-like appearance for a Lannister, his mind was sharp as claws. But alas, the coin was lacking, so there was nothing worth discussing with either him or her steward. "No, nothing of import. More wishful thinking on my part Maester Theomore. But if you would be so kind as to send a page to fetch Septa Thora, I think two young girls will soon be in need of naps." The last she said in a purposefully raised voice.

Which was heard, provoking a whiny "Momma" and an indignant "Mother, I am six; not a baby," from behind the large dollhouse in the corner of the solar.

Aunt Genna hooted in amusement at the response and the maester's thick lips twisted briefly in a wry grin before speaking, "Very well, Lady Cersei," and departing.

Her aunt's chair was not far from Cersei and once the maester left she leaned close to whisper inquiringly, "What wishful thinking, dear?"

"The Great Hall," she sighed.

"Casterly Rock wasn't delved in a night," came the answering platitude.

"But at least they delved gold," she complained quietly but bitterly.

Aunt Genna's eyes narrowed dangerously. "A Lannister pays his debts. The iron born earned a great one from _all_ our house when they killed Kevan," she announced icily. "You can't expect Tywin to keep supporting you as if nothing has happened?" Voice raising.

Cersei could not dare repeat what she truly expected of her father to her aunt. "Of course," she agreed placatingly. She was not some slack wit who did not know that waging war required mountains of coin. And she truly did want vengeance for Uncle Kevan had always treated her and Jaime lovingly. "Father and Uncle Gerion can wipe every damned one of those islands clean of iron born as far as I care." " _Including Asha and her get,_ " she added silently. "But the Great Hall could be completed all the sooner if I just could just find the coin for the necessary stone masons."

Satisfied sufficiently, Aunt Genna leaned her thick grown body back into the padded chair. "You dream large, Cersei. Boar's Tusk has come along amazingly well in just eight years. Be pleased Summer has lasted so long, allowing the craftsmen to work uninterrupted."

Though she frowned, Cersei reluctantly admitted, "I am pleased."

"Then why the hurry if Tywin halves your allowance for a few years?"

"I only wish a place to celebrate properly when Lyle returns," Cersei answered.

Aunt Genna blinked thrice in evident surprise and then a wide smile split her broad, smooth face. "Missing the Ogre already?" she asked in wonder.

"I haven't called him that in years," she hissed, feeling her cheeks inflame. Cersei only wanted what was due the lord of a major house and castle in the Westerlands; and by reflection, due her as well.

"Lady Cersei, may I take the children?" Septa Thora's loud voice asked, announcing her presence.

"Jeyne. Genna. Come giver your mother and your naunt a kiss," she commanded; not sure whether to be glad or not for the interruption.

Dutifully they came over.

"Mamma, your face is all red," Jeyne announced.

"Yes," Genna agreed.

"I am simply warm, sweetlings. Now kisses. Mmwhah. Mmwhah. Now behave yourselves for the Septa or no dessert for either of you at dinner tonight."

"Yes, mamma," They echoed each other. Then a kiss each for their naunt.

Aunt Genna watched them all the way out the door and then swiveled in the chair to say with a grin, "Absence does make the heart grow fonder, dear. For all that Emmon's a chinless nitwit, after forty years of marriage, I do find I miss him on my trips ... after a while."

" _Gods, I do not want to speak of this_ ," Cersei shrieked in her head at the continued embarrassment. The shame. A cringing smile forced across her heated face was all the answer she could give.

Which only caused her aunt to chuckle at her, a source of amusement. Of derision.

" _At least I was married to a King and a Westerland's Lord, not a vile Frey with only a holdfast the size of a pig's sty to his name_ ," Cersei told herself as she flushed from red to Lannister crimson at the derision cast upon her by own beloved aunt.

"Of course, it only takes a single day of his inbreed Frey ineptitude before I wish myself gone again from the Riverlands. The price noble wives pay," the stout greying woman lamented with a sigh. "Lyle isn't near so bad as my Emmon, is he?" her aunt prodded.

"He is no Robert," she tersely allowed herself to admit.

That drew a sad "Yes" of agreement from the other married woman.

No one had wanted to listen, let alone believe; the horror that had been her life imprisoned in the Red Keep. Only Jaime's presence had kept her from slitting her own throat, or Robert's. And the mad Stag had gotten his final revenge on the Lioness by killing her twin, her other half.

She had begged her father, demeaned herself below the lowliest whore, to not make her remarry. Lyle's big, powerful body had appeared the very reincarnation of Robert's; but one not impotent. Tywin and the rest of the family had refused her fervent wish.

Joanna's pregnancy and birth, the proof of her story, had slowly brought acceptance of the truth of her awful plight to the family. All accept father. After the wedding, he had never allowed her again in his presence. " _Whither Stannis_ " had been his two word response to her request to bring his newborn first grandchild to Casterly Rock. Seven years had passed, and Joanna would now finally see him, see Casterly Rock, live in it, without her.

There was no point rehashing any of this with her aunt; this her fourth visit to Boar's Tusk, the cage that had replaced the Red Keep. What prisons might her daughters one day find themselves captured in, she wondered as she oft worried. Joanna's right of betrothal had been granted to Tywin as part of the bargain. She had prayed to the Mother that the grandfather not begrudge the granddaughter as father had daughter; Lancel or one of his brothers, even Tyrek, but please not Tion or Walder though she loved her aunt well.

"And Boar's Tusk, though dusty," Aunt Genna added with a light smile, "is a far more pleasing place to live than the Twins."

"It is no Casterly Rock," she said proud as a Lannister.

"Cersei … my dear, willful child … has it ever crossed your mind that if you stopped seeking that which can no longer be, and accept the shackles binding you, that my brother would relent? And welcome you back?"

"Relent? The Old Lion? Ha!" she snarled.

"You are as bloody stubborn as Tywin is? Do you think he does not realize that? All Westeros now knows the shame was not yours. Lyle knows, and I doubt he ever cared."

"Do they? Does he?" She patted her belly. "Lord Oaf has no heir. Do not be such a fool, naunt, to believe he does not care about that?" she harshly accused.

"Like my Emmon, your Lyle is the second son of a high born lord. Emmon cared; though by the time Cleos was born, my husband was fifth in line to inherit the Twins and by Walder he had dropped to ninth. Most of Walder Frey's vile spawn gladly fight over earning the privilege to inherit a pot to piss in when the old snake finally drops dead. But by marrying the daughter of Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, Lyle Crakehall has won himself a lordship and a great castle. Of course he cares," Aunt Genna replied scornfully. "Emmon would give his left chestnut and half his twig to be Lord of Boar's Tusk."

"He does little to show it," she declared indignantly of the brass Strongbore, the blustering Lord Oaf.

"Hahahaha," came the answering laugh. "I'll grant you he has his pride. What man, low born or lord, stupidly does not? But in his gratitude, and perhaps some fear, your "Ogre" allows you, a mere woman, to rule his lands in all but name."

"He cares little for such things; unless it involves chasing bandits or would lower him in the eyes of his banner lords," she dismissed the argument. Lord Oaf cared little for judging petty disputes or thriftily spending every halfpenny so that they might afford to build the castle faster and fill it with fine objects.

"Does he, truly?"

"Yes," she believed emphatically.

"And what of your children? Does he care little for them?"

Cersei scowled at the unfair question. "No. He loves them, near as I love them."

"Which does he care more for, my niece? His daughters? A living son? Boar's Tusk? His pride? His honor?"

"Nothing is that simple, Aunt Genna?"

A smile of triumph crossed the older married woman's mouth. "No, Cersei, life is never that simple. I discovered that before you were e'er born, child. Remember, Lyle Crakehall is bound near as tight by the same shackles trapping you, dear."

The Lady of Boar's Tusk fumed at another's claim, even her beloved aunt, that anything could restrain the Lioness.

"Embrace the shackles, together, and they fall away. I do not claim love for Emmon. But, aye, though hard at times to admit it, there is affection between us. How could there not be, with Cleos and Lyonel and Tion and Walder. Accept the happiness there is, Cersei; stop grasping for the impossible. And maybe, Seven willing, some of the impossible will then fall into your lap."

"I am not well," she blurted, quickly standing up. She could not take any more of this ... this … this possible truth. "The baby needs fresh air," she declared, wrapping an arm around her belly. And Cersei proudly stormed off, refusing to hang her head.

* * *

The design for Boar's Tusk worked out years earlier with old Maester Mervyn had not included a Godswood for the inner bailey. More important functional buildings and spaces being necessary for the smaller footprint. Creation of the large, traditional castle garden would wait until the outer wooden palisade enclosing the exterior bailey was replaced by an imposing stone one.

However, the plans for the nascent bastion had not been left completely devoid of greenery. The roof of the Great Keep had been reinforced to support several feet thick worth of rich loam. Flowers, blooming grasses, and blossoming bushes planted in this earth created a lush living spot against the backdrop of the near, sometimes snow covered, sheer granite mountain peaks.

Cersei, in her despondency, retreated here to either confront or avoid the painful words spoken at her; as she had done so with great frequency and soul searching the last year and a half.

She did not believe she could ever come to love her Lord Oaf; only one man would ever hold her heart, the double hurt of the name "Jaime." Yet she did dearly love the children that Lyle's seed had planted within her.

As she slowly wandered, flitting from bench to roses to sundial to lilies, like a butterfly, she always kept one hand gently on her belly. A part of her screamed resentment at being treated no better than a brood mare; a fifth child before she turned thirty three. Another part demanded that she birth an heir. But an heir for Boar's Tusk or an heir for Casterly Rock? Minutes ago, she thought she had known the answer.

Aunt Genna bore four living sons. The last at age thirty nine. Parts of her at least were certainly affectionate for the balding sack of nothing that was her husband, pitiful Emmon Frey.

Even the Imp had two sons now, the first to remain nameless, with that titless, acned Kraken of his. Perhaps bearing children had given the slender chit a set of dugs and smoothed her salty complexion. What did Cersei know, they were as imprisoned in Pyke as much as, if not more than, she was in Boar's Tusk.

She wondered whether her dwarfish brother or her stout aunt ever cared that they had had no daughters. Tyrion still had time, if the rebelling iron born, or Asha herself, did not gut him like a fish.

Cersei had so many questions, pondering who she was, who she had been, who she might become.

Since her earliest memories, Cersei had always set herself, no matter the difficulty, the setbacks, to get that which she desired. The Lioness may lay low in waiting, but never bowed before any.

"Jaime will know what I should do?" she murmured. A purpose restored, the flitting about stopped.

It was only a short stroll along the green swards through the flowering boughs to the raised platform in the middle of the garden.

Cersei knelt down, tears immediately flowing as they always did when she reached out to touch the urn that was the centerpiece adorning the marble.

"Jaime, Jaime, Jaime," she wept. "My sweet Jaime. It is so hard to give up. It ruins me to think of doing so, breaks my heart as it broke when you died." Cersei Crakehall nee Lannister once Baratheon felt every single visible and invisible fetter weighing her down; the burden of it all spine shatteringly immense.

As ever, the urn remained silent to her entreaties.

Her son, born two years prior, had been blessedly christened in a Sept with the saintly name of "Jaime" on the seven day of his life; and died less than seven months later in Cersei's arms.

The Lioness trapped by the shackles of her own making knew not which way to turn.

* * *

FINIS

The Story of the Lioness will continue later in the next installment of the series, titled _The Lioness in Autumn_.


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